


Bitten Peach

by arlenejp



Category: Mystrade - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Times, Greg is a whore, Greg working his way up--but in what way, M/M, Male Prostitution, Mycroft gets his first, a surprise gift, encounter years later, mycroft is young, someone has scruples
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25753231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Eric owns a small brothel in which there are six women and two men. Gregory Lestrade is one of them.Mycroft Holmes is a young teen in senior year when--and the rest is left to the story.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 80
Kudos: 79





	1. First Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Bitten Peach is a book written by Habu. It is an eleven-story anthology capturing the essence of the deliciously euphemistic Oriental world of men making love to other men, arranged in a chronological sequence covering a 2,200-year period. These are stories that go beyond the random act of sexual release between men. They offer more complex and context-richer studies of gathering age-old themes, exotic settings, and all-so-human characters.

Fuck it all!

It's cold. I'm shivering. And no wonder! My body is visible for all to see except for the strip of fabric hiding my pecker.

Eight spotlights, eight half-naked figures revealed.

Each in their 'costumes' that display the more or less of us

Six women and one other male stand on a red-carpeted platform four feet off the ground.

I'm the second male.

On the front of my white jockstrap is a stamped-on picture of a peach.

Stage names are painted on a metal sign hung directly in front of our positions, and mine, in orange letters on a white background, reads 'The Bitten Peach",--my name. My stage name.

The red room it's called because of the color of the walls and carpet-no windows and two doors. Padded red simulated leather swivel chairs for the 'guests' to recline while choosing their fuck for the moment.

The few female clients that enter through the door are yearning for a life long gone. I have no choice but to oblige when I'm the one pointed at as a fuck partner.

My mostly unwrinkled face, my bushy eyebrows, and a body kept well for my years give me a heads up over the other male. It's mostly my luxurious silver-grey hair that always threatens to fall on my forehead that is my main attraction. Both men and women will rush to run their fingers through, and some will even brush it.

The door swings open and a noisy crowd of young male teens enters, pushing each other, swaggering in their damn youth.

Meli, the oldest of the women on the stage, shimmies her hips, her baubles hiding her nipples and vagina making a tinkling noise that's only slightly heard over the jabbering of the boys.

The five schoolboys are wide-eyed, sauntering, showing off their manhood. Acting like pumped up peacocks. You'd think they never saw flesh before.

"Okay, Mike. Which one will it be," a red-headed kid says, pushing him to the front, looking up at us, "It's your pick--your birthday. Time for Mike to have his cherry plucked. "

Hooting and hollering, and fist-raising from the other blokes.

Oh, no! Not another virgin! Another baby to coddle through his damn first time!

I don't want to be chosen. Tonight I would love to have at least three clients before I have a final shower. And finish off reading the murder mystery book I've been eagerly devouring these two days.

The male named Mike is reluctant. His arms stiff at his side, his fingers curled into a ball, he has to find courage in the face of his friends.

I'm sort of feeling sorry for him, the posh boy that he is! Look at him! He's wearing a steel grey three-piece suit, a light grey shirt that, even though it is open at the neck, seems to choke him. That shirt is silk, no doubt about it. And the suit is one that certainly didn't come off a hanger. Not ready-made.

"Come on Mike, pick one. You've got your choice. Don't care what you choose. We're paying. Go for it, man!"

"Oliver, give him a chance to observe, to bring his great mind forward into digesting which one would be best for him," one of the kids says using an elegant voice, his hands gesturing towards the young man.

Mike turns away, obviously distressed, and speaks, "Oliver, "I don't consider, I don't require--."

"Don't give a flying fandango. Take one. Cause you're not getting out of this room without a good fuck," the buzz-cut kid says.

It's evident he's shy and afraid. And for some unknown reason, he's tugging at my heart. In his way, he's cute. And--stupidly I wouldn't mind giving him his first taste of the good life.

"Come on, Oliver. Let him alone," I speak, turning his attention away from Mike towards me.

Oliver steps closer and looks at my thong, pointing, "Hey, you. What's with the peach? We know you're a fruit but--," snickering, "and that queer name? Bitten peach? Where did you get it from? You want me to bite that peach?" breaking into deeper giggles.

"It's a Chinese term for a male prostitute."

"Oh ho," Oliver states, turning to the others, "Hey, there's a good one for you, Mike! He's edumacated. He can read. A queer, just like you. "

I ball up my fingers into a fist. The shit piece has the nerve to make fun of us.

Eric has been standing off to the side as is his usual way. He closes the gap and takes Olivers' arm. "Okay, that's enough. Mike, either you choose or leave. What is your decision?"

"Wherever did you acquire the knowledge regarding Chinese male prostitutes?" Mike's soft high-class voice inquires, crossing his arms, ignoring Eric.

His eyes, a deep grey shine with intelligence and a hint of sadness that makes me wonder. What has he to be sad about?

" A book called Bitten Peach. I found it in the trash a few years back."

Eric shoos at the boys," Give Mike room. Go outside now," opening the door and watching as they reluctantly leave.

"Thank you. I'll be certain to obtain a copy and study the history," not making a move, his eyes curiously boring into me, shaking me inside.

"Oh, but it's not a history--, " trailing off, when Mike moves quickly to the door, waves, and scurries out.

Eric scoffs, "that was strange. The fellows paid for him, yet he didn't take any of you. Ah, well, you can relax until the next call."

Yes, that was strange. Strange how I reacted to this kid. How my cock ascended as those eyes bored into mine.

I jump off the stage, Meli waiting, tucks her arm under my elbow, "something bothering you? You've gone pale."

"Just thought I would have loved to have shown the ropes to that one," heading upstairs.

"Well, that's a first. You always said first-timers were a bore. And all of a sudden, this one? Ah but he's gone," patting my arm as if I was a child.

* * *


	2. Reflections

That night, lying on my bed, stomach filled with leftover Chinese food, I started to think about my life and where I was right now.

I interlace my fingers on my stomach, staring up at the ceiling and know I've fucked up in so many ways.

But, the one plus is, unlike my dad, I have never touched a drop of liquor.

Refuse to go down that road as he and two of my uncles did. His brothers.

Drugs of any kind scare the bejeebers out of me.

I've smoked cigarettes and cigars but living the way I do it was an expense I couldn't afford.

I occasionally eat out or have takeaway.

I've found a new hobby, and it's cooking. I've bookmarked many recipes and cook at least five times a week for myself and the other members of Erics team.

Sighing! But what good does all that do? My real dream, my favorite picture of myself is in a police uniform.

Don't ask me why but it's always been something I've wanted to try. To hunt down the wicked, to defend the populace.

But with never enough money to enter the university that remained only that. A dream

And emanating from a working-class neighborhood with a white-collar class family the cash was never there.

My pop worked for a construction company as a carpenter and mom, being an excellent seamstress took work in while caring for us kids.

Beth! Two years younger and a beauty from early on. I took pride in watching over her and would occasionally enter into fistfights to fend off the guys.

I was known for my temper. Got it from my pops side of the family.

Pop and his two brothers were heavy drinkers and known for the long nights out.

The week after my twelfth birthday he floundered into the house, shouting for us to wake up--he had news.

Mom slowly descended the steps, nightgown and robe thrown over and sis followed.

I was sitting in the parlor, playing a game on a--stollen--tablet, hearing the front door open, I tucked it under the cushion of the sofa.

"Took care of him good, I did," he swayed, going for the refrig, finding a beer.

Turns out he punched his boss, knocking out two teeth, and was immediately fired.

Word got around, and he was locked out of his profession and finally gave up looking at anything.

He developed the habit of sitting in his recliner, watching the telly, or reading, inebriated by evening.

And I found myself hustling after school for any odd jobs. Sometimes swiping food off the local grocer's shelf to keep us going.


	3. The Last Hurrah AT Home

Overwhelmed with worrying about Mom and sis, I would invariably find myself shouting at the unshaven hulk sitting in his chair, bottle in one hand, remote in the other.

"What the hell is fucking wrong with you? Even your brothers have done right by themselves. But you, no you have to sit and wallow in your--"waving my hand in disgust.  
"Ah, what's the use," turning away.

* * *

But sometimes I would forget myself and move to close to him and then his fist would connect with my body, leaving me sore and sometimes missing work or school.  
As bad as he was I never considered fisting him back.

* * *

My fourteenth birthday--how I remember it!

I had purposely taken off from work today because I knew it would make Mom happy.  
She would have my favorite chicken dinner on the table with mashed potatoes and green beans.

For dessert, home-made chocolate chip cupcakes with a lit candle to blow out.

* * *

I washed up and joined the three of them, astonished to see that Dad was somewhat sober.

Throughout the meal Mom and sis prattled on, trying to include both Dad and me in their exchange.

I was carefully eyeing Pop, noticing he had a can of cola instead of beer.  
Mom must have scolded him and coaxed him into not imbibing while at the kitchen table tonight.

* * *

Blowing out the candle, the talk turned to our school studies, and Mom asked about my grades.

I grunted, "okay, I guess," keeping my head averted.

She knew. And she screwed up her face, almost as if she was ready to cry," you have to do better, have to try. Even though you don't like it, it's the only way to get a decent job."

Pop looked up, "yeah. Better than me, she's saying," standing, opening the refrig door and snapping open a beer can while taking three more out.

I see Moms face drop down almost into her lap and start to open my mouth.  
She gently places her hand over mine and shakes her head no.

* * *

I helped clean up the kitchen and afterward turned on my laptop to let loose with a video game while in the quiet of my room. 

Thirsty, I run downstairs, open the refrig and take a soda when I hear his grunts and his boozed-up voice calling, "get over here, Gregory."

Uh, oh, using my full first name means not good, and scrambling into the parlor, wary, he's slouched in his chair, and no surprise, a beer bottle in his left hand.

His other beckons me close, his mouth drawn tight.

"Come closer. How was your day," garbling those words, his head tilted to one side, his hair-- what little there was--poking in all directions.

Caring? No? Being nice? Not good!

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I move close enough to see his eyes are not focusing, the corners teary.

* * *

In the kitchen, Mom and Beth's voices come softly to my ears. I know that Mom is sewing and sis knitting.

* * *

Cocking his head, Pop asks," so which teacher are you fucking?"

My head jerks, my mouth drops open, " Wait! What? Huh? What are you talking about? What do you mean by that?"  
My mouth must have hung open to my knees, my eyes wide enough to sink a boat.   
I didn't hear that, did I? Was he asking me--?

Before my wits were capable of collecting itself, he pushes himself forward, slightly off his chair. 

His available hand snatches at my trousers, gripping my privates.

Clasping it so strongly, dragging me closer to him.

I'm in shock, and it's followed by the intensity of the pain.  
Doubling me over I have no choice but to hobble to be between his thighs.

"Dad. For God's sake, stop. You're--," gasping for breath.

"I saw ya naked. Your dick is all grownup. You jerk off. I can hear you in your room. So-- tell your dad, huh? Private like. Between us two men. Who are you doing it with? Man or woman? Huh? You learn anything?"

"Dad, you're squeezing too hard," tears falling, my skin sweaty with the discomfort.

"Come on. Man to man," chuckling, taking a drink with his unhindered hand.

Letting me loose, I drop to the ground, bend over, and roll up on my feet.

* * *

Thunder in my ears, rage boiling in my gut, I stop, breath harsh in my ears.

That fucking bastard! That sloshed figure of a father! That--that--and hobble into the kitchen.

Mom looks up, worried. Sis looks up, concerned.

"I'll kill him. Give me something to hit him with."

I can't hear their voices, just the rage so hot, so red hot.  
My cock, my balls chafe under my shorts.  
Hot.  
Red Hot.

* * *

Through the circle of red, a cooking pot, a metal pot that fits into my hand.

Dashing into the parlor, my arm swings to wherever I lift it.

Hot. Red Hot.

Female screams, hands grasping at my arm, tugging it down, tearing the weapon from me, shouldering me away, out of the room.

Bewildered as the red hot burns down, the pain both in my groin and head still simmers. 

Grabbing onto the banister I run, stumble up the steps and slam the door of my room, throwing myself on the bed.

* * *

That night, my clothes, all my stuff was thrown out the window. And despite the pleadings of the women, I was out, out of the house. Kicked out to live how I could.

* * *


	4. The Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mister Wallingford is all too willing to aid Greg. At what price?

I was working my balls off after school and on the weekends. No job was too difficult, no time too early or late.

I had to provide for my 'ladies' as I call them affectionately.

There were nights when I slept under a tree, bundled up, nights when a friend snuck me into their room, nights when I slept on the floor of the job.

My days at school were ridiculously hard. I couldn't keep up with the assignments. My eyes were always balancing between shut and open.

The struggle to keep the quality of my work high enough left me frustrated.  
But still, I had to.  
I knew without question that if I was to find decent employment I needed that piece of paper.

It was a balancing act, and most often my devotion to Mom and sis tipped the scales.

* * *

I was coming along reasonably well in all subjects except for my literature class.  
Never having the stamina to read the required book or write a dissertation I knew this was my soft spot.

To make it worse, the instructor, Mister Wallingford, was a smug, self-satisfied bastard. He looked down at the couple of us that were from 'the pitiful neighborhood.' 

"It's such an exercise in futility for you," gazing at myself and the several others that lived in said neighborhood. "Might as well find yourselves employment and not stress over a certificate."

He had us pegged into a specific mold, and to his mind, we were nothing better than street cleaners.

* * *

During the literature course one day, it was announced that our maths instructor had taken ill, her class canceled.  
Being it was my last session I could get out early today and savor the freedom for a few hours before work.

My backpack was on my shoulders ready to walk out when Mister Wallingford dropped some papers on the floor. No one else was in the room anymore and being in a good mood, I shucked off my backpack and bent to assist him.

I had heard rumors about this middle-aged, pipe-smoking, blue-eyed, pot-bellied man.  
Rumors of him being either bisexual or gay. And--having a taste of young men.  
Nothing scandalous, but hearsay that he loved to play with teens. Never been caught or tattled on.  
But, once, one of the grads had said he had sucked the guys cock to advance his grade.

* * *

While kneeling on the floor, I decided to gamble. Scrunching the papers, I said, "Gee, Mister Wallingford, I work long hours helping my family. I would do whatever, yes, anything to better my grade. Can you suggest anything?"

Smirking, he rises and proceeds to the door, locking it.

" Leave the papers alone and sit under the desk," unzipping his trousers, situating himself in his swivel chair. 

I scooched under the desk and, not to my surprise, there, starting to unfold was his pink, already leaking cock, balls barely visible.

"Mister Lestrade. Make it hard and make it come."

* * *

I found it interesting, the idea of a males part inside me, tasting, smelling his earthiness, the musky scent of the male body.  
Up to now, I had no interest in exploring anything to do with sex other than using my hand. Either too busy or too tired. Not enough to give a moments thought to cultivate anything near a relationship.  
Yes, girls had approached me, had rubbed against my body, had shown me they were willing, but I never stopped to consider anything more than a hello.  
More than once someone would tell me that I was a stunning specimen of a man.  
Once it came from the mouth of a guy, and that startled me and gave birth to thinking I might be gay. But I never followed through.

* * *

"Mister Lestrade," stopping me with an arm on my shoulder, catching me between classes," I need your assistance now."  
Surrounded by passing students, I made to hesitate, seeming to them to be unsure of what is going on. But inside, I was smirking. I have him hooked, and with some patience with this fucker it will all work in my favor.  
"It will not take long. Follow me," his grip tightening and pulling me forward.

Opening the door and bolting it once inside, he unzips, sinks to the floor, "kneel, and this time you'll swallow my come."

Wiping my mouth, getting up from the floor, " I know this isn't the only--,"

"Since we only have two weeks left, I would say at least a few more. I'll let you know," adjusting himself," now get out of here."

* * *

A few became six more.

* * *

Did I mind? Nah! He got what he needed and I, well, let's say I sucked my way to graduation.


	5. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is taught the fine art of whoring.

During the day I scrub, wash, and generally clean the shit out of people's houses. The owners of this cleaning company are guys who are both burly, whiskey-drinking, cussing men who try to engage me in their nightly bar hopping.

I have no time for frivolities like that, which, I wouldn't partake of anyway.

Instead, I have dinner at a diner or small cafe and enter the tube for the ride home.  
A shower, a little relaxation with junkie television during which time I usually fall asleep on the second-hand rocker I dragged home from a thrift store.

It's a short underground trip in the evening to a distribution center on the out edge of London, near the docks.

My second job is lifting, carting large crates, containers, and boxes and is back-breaking, but it pays well. This late-night shift gives me just enough shut-eye to wake up, do what's required to dress, put together breakfast, and a sandwich for lunch--and go clean more houses.

And on and on the merry go round, I continue.

Sharing the late night with me is one man I am curious to know better. His name is Billy. He's very close-mouthed. Hardly says a thing but works well alongside all of us.

A robust man, about fifty, short in stature. His nose sits at an angle. Yea, I could see him getting into all kinds of physical encounters. His hair, tied in a ponytail with any bit of cloth he finds hangs to his shoulder.

He has attached himself to me, taking our breaks for cigs and soda together and we sit in a peaceful silence on the crates.

His nickname for me--he held nicknames for all the guys working there, was 'silverback.'

When he first started using that term I couldn't figure it out!

Laughing silly-like, he said it was because my hair, silver-grey matched the back of a gorilla by that name.

Giving him the information that this greying began when only a teenager, he grunted, "gives you a sexy look. What with the waves and such. The women must droll over you."

What women?

Coming out of the john I was straightening up and heard grunts and shuffling feet. A scuffle. Metal banging on the concrete.

Following the sound near to the entrance, I have to swerve to avoid a metal container rolling on the floor.

Billy is fighting off two unfamiliar somebodies and could use some help.  
I mixed in, and with a few well-placed punches from us both they flew out the back door.

Billy wiped the blood off his lips and smiled. Looked across at my shirt, showing some bloodstain and then down--specifically at my swollen crotch.  
"Nice package you're revealing," he smirks. "You are quite a man, silverback," sliding his hand over to cover the constrained jeans.

I didn't jump away but found it--interesting.

"I owe you. And if you let me suck on that thing, we'll be even. What say?"

I don't know what to say or do, at odds with myself.

My cock throbs, but I shiver with trepidation.  
He gives me no chance to step away and kneeling he drops my trousers to the ground.

He leans in, and with a gentle touch lifts my cock to his open, waiting mouth.

And the most spellbinding, mysterious, extraordinary circumstance began to unfold from my genitals to my toes, to my silver hair.

He played magic with my cock. His mouth was the magicians' box, bringing forth mysteries! His tongue the wand, sliding over the skin, producing sensations I never knew existed within myself and twisting my balls between his fingers, weaving them as if manipulating the most delicate silk! I couldn't contain myself. It was--I don't know--flying in space, swimming in an ocean. It was.  
And I came in a torrent. The weaving of the spell sweeping spasm after spasm of liquid, bursting, bubbling.

I could hear, through thickened air, my moans, my cries as the contractions rippled in my stomach.

I fell to the ground, doubled up, sweat dripping, breath churning out, fingers twisting into my shirt.  
Never, never had my fingers or hand produced such--.

"How--how did you--where did you--?" the whisper of my voice sounded distant, foggy.

On the floor, his knees up and arms folded around them, he took a piece of gum from his shirt pocket, unwrapped and stuck it in his mouth, bundling up the wrapper and heaving it out over the containers.

"At one time, near your age, I became a male prostitute. First giving it out on the street for almost nothing." Chewing thoughtfully, "but a woman, a whore turned madam, took me into her whorehouse where she kept a group of men."

Taking out the gum and tacking it on a wood box next to us, "you got to understand that back then men didn't--well, it was sinful and you could go to jail or worse."

I tried to sit up straight but managed only to perch on my elbows.

I could tell he was peering into the past and let him linger there.

"There was one, oh damn, the prettiest man I ever saw. Older than me. Sort of like the difference between you and I. During the day, a stockbroker and at night--he transformed into a woman."

" He loved showing off for us fellows. Sometimes he would spend--, "shaking his head out of his dream.

"Anyhow, I took a shine to him and we lived together at his place. Of course, our relationship was secretive. I managed to work on and off at various jobs."

But," and he emphasized it again, "but--he taught me the finer points of the game. How to suck, how to fuck, and so on. He was a master at it. "

"That's all I got to say," taking a breath, offering me a cig, he looked up, blew out a smoke ring, and he sat silent until the cigarette was nothing more than a stub.

"I could teach you if you wanted. You're pretty enough to attract the females, and can even hook you up with a pimp later down the road. I know one that is fantastically considerate of his 'workers' "air quoting.

I finally sat up, and his head turned and stared at me, in contemplation.

I resolved to give it voice, to be honest, "Billy, to be open with you and finally to myself," taking in a breath," I am gay. Never been with a woman, never want to be. Since I'm telling you this, I might as well go one further-- you are the first to touch my cock beside myself. I guess you would say I am a virgin."  
"Where are you living now," ignoring my last remark as if it was an everyday occurrence.  
Flicking a piece of who knows what off my trouser, I shrug," here and there. Mostly friends."  
And that's when Billy offered to share his small one-bedroom place.

My backpack and laptop were my only personal property I owned and I slept on the couch in his little flat and helped with cooking and cleaning.

When not working, he instructed me in the fine art of pleasing. Sometimes through a video, but most times we acted out, fucking and sucking our way to orgasms.  
It would be--use your tongue this way--hold my cock in your mouth and--twist your fingers to--.  
He would always say, "imagine how the other person is feeling and thinking--not how it affects you. Be aware of every noise, every twitch, each way they hold themselves."

Hell, they never taught this in school!  
In the old days, he was paid good bucks to be a whore. Good enough to retire and live someplace warm and easy from all he said.

But addiction hit. The gambling addiction and he lost it all. He still played the numbers. Couldn't get it out of his system even when, on nights, he would swear he was done.

There was never anything like love between us, but it was a mutual trust and a liking of a teacher and pupil.

Billy never showed for work one night and after that just disappeared, never leaving a trace. His belongings were still in the flat, and I had to assume he either met an unfortunate end or took off to avoid reaching a lousy end.


	6. The Door Slightly Opens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meli cooks breakfast for Greg and he has some thinking to do about his future

It was easy enough to continue to live in the flat. The rent was cheap, and the furnishing was a part of the whole. 

* * *

I kept Billy's belongings in the hope he would show one day, shrug his shoulders, and we'd go on.

* * *

The smell of bacon, the sound of a pot clanking on the stove wakes me. 

Billy! He's here!

Throwing my trousers over my naked body, I zip and walk into the kitchen, running my hand through my sleep, tossed hair.

"Hey Bil--," but stop short when seeing a female body facing the stove.

My eyebrows rise in surprise as I do a double-take, and with a strangled voice, I ask, "How did you get into my flat? Who the hell are you? And why are you cooking breakfast?"

Her bluish hair flips as she turns her head, her green sleeveless t-shirt revealing well-tanned arms.  


She cracks open eggs into the pan without looking back at me, "whoa, lots of questions to be throwing around before we eat!"

She was petite, but not slim. Her jeans held tight to a taut butt; her ponytail kept time with her arms.

I'm too stunned to do anything until she says, still without a glance my way, "get down two plates and mugs, and we'll talk."

Okay, dumb ass! She got into this flat somehow, and--she's cooked! Always a good thing!

"You'll be to work in plenty of time, don't worry about that."

I set the table while she places the food on the plates, pours the coffee and sits, indicating with her head that I follow suit.

" Have a key, see?" Pulling out a bunch from her pocket and clattering them at my face.

"Used to crash here years ago and never gave them back to Billy," a generous helping of bacon and eggs disappears into her mouth.  
"My name is Melissa, Meli, to all, and I made you eats because I was hungry."

She assesses me while stuffing her mouth," Billy was right about you. You're sure one hell of a fucking pretty boy for sure. Would do well in our business. And--if you've been living with Billy, I know he taught you all the 'tricks,'" she air quotes. 

Pausing a moment, she leans over the table, stares at me as if she was an x-ray machine.

"Yeah, you're damn good. Wouldn't mind showing me that prick of yours, would you?"

I stand so fast the chair overturns, "Now, wait here--," indignation, squinting at the very daring of her.

"Sorry, sorry. Don't get your balls out of sorts," gathering the dirty dishes, setting them in the sink, "Are you turning tricks at all on the streets?"

"No, why would I? Too precarious out there, " pushing her away from the sink and taking up the sponge.

I can't think of why I'm not pushing her out the door.

"That's why you need a set-up like Erics. He's a right guy. Here. Here's our card, "casually throwing a beige business card on the table.

"He could use someone as intriguing as you."

Before she walks out the door, I take hold of her arm, "wait. Why would I--?"

"Look, you idiot, " her fingers grabbing my chin, pushing me against the doorpost, " Eric is one of the top procurers around here. He keeps a clean house and is generous to us. You could make a bundle and quit with a good life ahead of you instead of schlepping boxes and working long hours for the rest of your life."

Removing both her hand and my arm, " don't let a little thing like propriety get in your cock. This is a business just a valid as your traipsing around someone's house cleaning their filth," and is out the door before I have other questions.

* * *

After leaving the cleaning guys I walk into my flat, climbing out of my clothes, and leave them on the floor with the other ones from yesterday. I must do laundry, I mutter, lying on the bed, closing my eyes.

* * *

A whore. A male whore. How would it be? Would I get my kicks also? What kind of scum would I be dealing with?

What might I be required to do? Threesomes? Groups?

I sneak looks at Frankie and Albie, my brawny bosses. What would their dicks look like? Taste like?

* * *

After all, I've been sharpening my skills with Billy. For hell's sake, we screwed and sucked until it hurt!

Step by step instructions to make the other individual need you so much they return for more and pay through their assholes.

What the hell, yea, might as well. Give it a try. If I find it's shit I can just disappear.

* * *


	7. The Red Room and the Suite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg meets Eric and the establishment called Old World. His skepticism continues.

Two mornings later I got up the nerve to phone the maintenance office and inform Frankie that I have a stomach bug and won't be into work.

* * *

A strange name-'Old World'- but it's the name on the card Meli gave me. Located on the outskirts of London central I can take the tube and arrive within walking distance.

Intermittent clouds don't dampen the lovely day, but I still manage to have chills.  
I have no idea what I'm marching into. Is this as lucrative as Meli said? What do I have to do for it? And for how long? And how do I know this company, 'Our World' is legit? And--what is regarded as legit in this underground world?

* * *

I stop in front of a mottled red brick building. The door is black with the house number screwed on, and a doorbell off to the side. No business name. Unassuming and modest, with no evidence that anyone resides, whether permanent or temporary. 

To my eyes, it's not how I imagine a whore house to be. Never been to one anyways so how would I know!

* * *

I look down, feeling awkward, a little boy about to be presented to the family. I straighten my shirt, tuck it tighter into my jeans, a sheen of sweat turning up on my brow.  
Sneakers, tight black jeans-my best-, a purple button-down shirt and my brown jacket.  
The silver-grey of my hair is best shown when slicked back. But there's always that wayward curl that climbs over the edge to my temple. and right now it's sitting on my damp forehead refusing to go back in place.

Shaking my head I have no choice. I'm here.

Straightening my back, digging into my breath, I press my finger on the doorbell. A loud buzz, an audible click and the lock snaps open.

* * *

It's an office! An ordinary office! The usual desk, the typical plush chairs and a coffee table!

Inwardly laughing I see Phile, Math Pinups, and others laying on the table. Porn mags.

Off to my right holding sparkling carafes of liquor is a buffet and on one wall a big screen tv.  
The subdued colors of green and beige also take me by surprise.

What did you expect it would resemble? Those pictures of whore houses that one sees on tv shows? With scarlet red walls, thick blood carpets, and plush maroon sofas? Candlelit. And women draped, half-naked in positions of lewdness?

I assume this is Eric sitting at the paper-cluttered desk.  
I figure him in his mid-fifties, a bald head, and a pair of glasses sitting perilously on his forehead. He resembles nothing more than an accountant.  
His sleeves rolled up and ready to add your taxes.  
Sitting at the desk with his laptop open, he looks at me, stands and grins.

"No, nothing like you thought, huh? That's okay. I have that reaction from everyone. We are legally registered to operate."

Meli enters the room, and she and Eric toss a look between them.

" I'm Eric Schoff. Welcome to 'Our World.' Meli did give you a card, didn't she," looking over at her as she nods her yes.

"Gregory Lestrade, isn't it?"

He stands toe to toe, about two inches taller than me, a slight pot-belly hanging over his belt.

Shifting on my feet, "look, I don't have much time. I have to get on the tube in an hour to get to my next paycheck, " a weak excuse to get away early.

"Want a drink? Have a seat," all in one breath, crossing to sit behind the desk.

"Go on. I'm all ears," raising my eyebrows, sitting and crossing my arms. Still skeptical even though it does not scream brothel.

" Let's start nice and easy, ok? Right now I have seven contracted artisans. And yes, that's what you are. All well-schooled in your profession."

"How do you know about me?" crossing my legs and rubbing my sweaty palms on my jeans.

"Billy came to me awhile ago. A quick learner, a good student, he said about you."

Meli sees my growing anger quickly moves to stand next to me, her palm patting my shoulder.

"Look, "she said, "Billy was one of the best at understanding what a client desired. He could read someone by their gestures and facial expressions. And he found you were a natural. You just never knew it. Never knew how to use it. So, like any teacher who saw great potential in a student, he began to work with you. And once he understood your mindset he came to us intending to introduce you to this organization." She stepped away and leaned against a door.

"It's a shame that Billy fell into gambling." she said

"Yes," I answered, and looked again toward Eric. "So, Mister Schoff, tell me more."

" Its Eric. We only use first names, "and stretching back in his chair, " So how do we find our clients? We don't have to search anymore. All are referrals with impeccable reputations."

"You mean those who are wealthy?" chuckling.  
When he doesn't deny it I swallow my surprise!

"I know I'm doing this a bit backward, but bear with me today. I'll have all the facts to you and answer all your questions," removing his glasses and rubbing his face.

"The client pays a small upfront fee, which is non-refundable. He fills out a questionnaire and reads our rules of conduct and puts signature to both. Based on his inclinations, we reveal each artisans pictures, and the client chooses."

"Do you have many women clients?"

" We used to but nowadays it's male. Of all preferences. We do not close the door on anyone unless they are into bdsm in its severe form."

I stand to leave when Meli stops me with a hand on my chest.

"There's more. Listen to Eric," turning to him," or should I tell him?"

He waves his hand towards her and motions for me to sit. Reluctantly I do.

"Years ago I bought the two buildings and converted them into the one. Renovating the inside, I installed eight suites on the upper two floors. That's where all of you live and play. No outsiders permitted other than the clients, no smoking, no drugs. The rooms have alarms for clients that become too uncivil."  
"Did you say suites?" What does that mean?" still tenaciously clinging to the notion of how hustlers live.

Eric shifts in his seat and opens a bottle of water. Taking his time to drink it, he empties it, then throws the container into a wastebasket.

"You underestimate this operation. As most do, Gregory. You'll get to visit yours before you sign anything. It's a fully furnished flat"

Waving him off, not believing," go ahead. What else do I need to know, and how much do I make?"

Still unsure, I push myself up halfway out of the chair. Sort of like I'm betwixt and between believing and leaving.

"If you agree, I will require you to sign a six-month contract along with photos and videos. If, after the six months, you still wish to be in my employ, we can reestablish terms. "

"I'd like to see this suite as you call it."

"Of course. Wouldn't expect your skepticism without taking a gander at where you'll be living. Before we go up, there's one more thing."

Here it goes. The catch.

He taps the desktop with his fingers and pushes himself up.  
" There's a little peccadillo of mine that we all take part in. A bit of a diversion. Every other Tuesday evening, we invite young males, teens, and into their early twenties to join us. They pay a small fee for us to entertain them."

Meli chuckles," it's become fun for us also. And wait until you see the red room," her grin jumping off her face.

"When you say 'entertain' do you mean--?"

"Yes, Greg. You'd be amazed at how many of these kids have no ideas about what sex is. We try to teach."

Pulling herself up to her full height Meli interjects, "I had one kid who thought he could impregnate a girl by sticking his finger into her vagina. Some parents--"shaking her head.

"Come look at the red room," opening the door to my left and steps aside for me to peer inside. He flicks on the lights. Everything is red from the ceiling to the floor. And I mean everything. From the walls to the carpet. Bright, nauseating blood red.  
Floodlights. Eight of them individually shining down on a stage that sits about two feet off the ground. Floodlights to enhance the person standing under it.

That is just what I thought this place would look like--and I fully anticipate my suite to be the same.

"A bit shabby but still clean. When I thought about it, I knew the kids would be overwhelmed by anything plush. So I created this for them. Good, eh?" and chuckles as he closes the door.

"I ask my artisans to cover their private parts for the kids and give themselves a stage name. It's what they expect, and it's what we give."

"Now it's time to show you suite five. "

* * *

Up the three flights--no elevator. We hit the landing and walk down the hall. If I didn't know any better, I'd think it would be a first-class hotel. The carpeting is beige with tiny green triangles, and to light our way, the ceiling is illuminated. 

Opening the door to room five, I'm awestruck. Can't speak. I hear, behind me, Erics chuckle.

"Welcome to your home."

* * *

"By the way, you pay for utilities and any cleaning in that flat. Got it?"

For six months what have I got to lose, thinking the words. It couldn't be any worse than what I'm doing now. 

Eric's hand is on my back propelling me back to the office before I can further explore suite five.

I fill out the necessary forms, and Eric says, "Remove your clothes in the bathroom. I need to capture stills and videos of you. And by the way, I will need one of you with your penis fully erect. How you choose to do that is up to you."  
We have completed all the required photos, and I've gathered my clothes and dressed.

Eric lifts a set of keys, drops them in my hand, "take care of yourself, and I hope you are happy here."

* * *

Two duffle bags with toiletries and clothes is all it took to get out of the flat.  
And one book. Billy's favorite. Bitten Peach.


	8. THE PROSTITUTE'S SUITE AND GREGS FANTASY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg describes the flat to his mum as if she was there. But of course, he can't invite her to his flat. It's only a fantasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hang on there folks! Getting to the juicy part soon!

Keys jangling from my fingers, I roam through my new flat.

I'm breathing it in, my eyes popping out of my head. I'd never, never have guessed in any of my wildest imaginings that I'd live in this luxurious flat!

I've not contacted any of my family for years, although sometimes I wish I had communicated with sis.  
Maybe somehow snuck a phone call or a letter to mum.

Mum didn't understand how to text or email--foreign ideas to her, and of no interest.

It would have meant calling.  
And if Dad answered--what then?  
I was so appalled by the man he had become.  
So--I kept putting it off and shunting it to the back burner in my mind.

But--those were the excuses. I felt--well--out of place.

I'm no longer the teenage son, the wild kid who was determined to destroy himself. And who took a while to understand that criminal life was not an avenue I cared to explore.

After a few encounters with the police, I gained an appreciation for the work they do.  
It could be a good life, could be exciting to apprehend criminals, to be a part of a team.  
But that took schooling, more than I had, and more than I could afford.

Dropping on the sofa, frustrated, I throw the keys onto the table and sigh!

I wish that mum could witness this fabulous flat with her own eyes.  
What if I contacted Mum now? Wrote her a letter. Provide a written picture of this place. She would gush. Amazed at how her son was living!

My dearest mum, I would start.  
How are you doing? Are you still alive?

Now that's stupid! Why would I ask that in a letter? Or at all!

I should know whether she's alive or not. Shouldn't I?

But that concept, the knowledge she could be dead and me not knowing hit in my stomach like a sack of potatoes.  
I gripped the sofa cushion in one fist and doubled over. It hurt. Is she still here on earth?  
And if she isn't--?

I leave that horrid thought on the table and continue with my letter.  
Sorry it has been so long, but it's taken a while to get my life where I could say you'd be proud.

Fucking lie that! The thought of her son, her only son, as a prostitute, even an upper-class one, would kill her instantly.

Of course, in reality, I'm not writing anything.

I imagine the letter she would send back. The first line of it declaring," where did you get the money for all this fanciness?"

Yea, not a good idea. But--I can write such a letter in my head. In my heart. Make-believe.  
Yea, that's a good idea! Might make me feel a whole lot better.

Okay, getting up from the sofa, let's play a game and walk to my front door.

Let's suppose mum has rung the doorbell, I open the door, and sweep my arm back, bowing low to usher her in.

She'd be carrying a bunch of flowers, her black purse swinging on her arm, and smiling. She'd reach up to kiss my cheek as I bend towards her.

"Welcome Mum." as I draw in a sharp breath, noticing the wrinkles, the slowness of her step.

"Come in, come in. Let me take this beautiful bouquet. Thank you so much."

She moves forward, and her breath sucks in as her hand goes to her throat.

"This parlor is nothing like our dinky, worn-out front room, is it?" I say, lighthearted, diverting her from--what?

I drop the flowers into an empty vase and set it on a table.

She reaches for my arm, "Oh my, oh my. It's--huge," she says, her head moving from one side to another, as she steps onto the polished wood floor. Never missing anything, she marks the scattered throw rugs near the chairs.

Me--so apprehensive, worried as those all-seeing eyes rake through the room.

She would regard the bare tea-green walls and comment, "hang some pictures, dear, to make it homier looking."

Staring around, mum would declare, "I'll get you a photo of us, and you'll set it on the coffee table."

I'd point to the recliner, " remember how Pop always went on about owning a leather recliner? Look-- including the motors," pushing the buttons to lower the back and footrest.

She would come to a dead stop in front of the curved sofa, stare at it, daring to touch it with a finger, "What's the matter? Can't have a simple sofa? Need something so fancy?"  
Turning her head away when I don't answer, she gives an ohh sound, "wouldn't your pop love to watch his soccer on that?" eyeing the big-screen television.

Holding onto her arm, I direct her to the kitchen and peeking in, she shakes her head back and forth, "smaller than at home. But what else do you need, as a bachelor, hmm?" Concluding with that small murmur indicating she wished otherwise.

"It's fully equipped, ma. Don't have to buy anything other than kitchen towels. And you know what? I've taken to cooking, learning from a friend, and I've even prepared your lasagna just the way you used to."  
I know her eyes would tear up, "That's my boy. But--I'd have to taste first," and of course she'dd giggle while patting my hand.

The bathroom! It has the typical toilet, sink, shower, but-- a four-person hot tub. She doesn't comment, nods, murmurs, and continues to hold onto my arm and pat my hand.

"I have to warn you mum, this is kind of wacky. Please try to understand. I did not buy it. It came with the place."

Her hand goes to her mouth, "oh my God. Such craziness!"

The 'it' that I referred to was the king-size round bed.

A quick disgusted snort, "okay wise guy, what is the need for that--that contraption? And do you need another huge television in a bedroom? It should be for sleeping, not staying up all night, burning your eyes out!"  
Mum would clutch at her sweater, pulling it in close to her body. Sheltering her.

"What kind of shenanigans are you up to that you need a bed that looks like that? A simple twin bed is all you should have."  
Moaning, pressing my fist into my lips, I drop the pretense, the play-acting, and heat the kettle for tea.

How would I ever explain what I've neglected from this mock visit? What is missing from my description.

What is more telling is the not-telling. The cabinets under the two televisions that are abundantly full of pornography DVDs.

But to be honest, brutally honest?  
Mum would never have gotten past the threshold. Her attention would be immediately taken by looking up, and she would gasp, and rush away.

All the rooms include mirrors. Oh, not just the 'look at yourself, pat your hair' type. No, this is full-size--on the walls and ceilings.

Oh shit! Sorry, mum. So, so sorry. This is what life has given to me, and I'm proceeding to take full advantage of the fortune it brings.

But still, oh shit!

Burying my chin into my chest, I slump into the recliner. The remote for the telly is in my hand, and I watch whatever registers.

I want a decorative theme for my new home and Eric requires us to have one for the Tuesday evening teen gathering.

Nothing inspires me, gives me that aha moment.

A Suit!  
Instead of meeting a client in just anything, I decide to wear a suit. A three-piece suit.

I know, I know. Keeping a certain memory of a certain person alive!

At a department store, I thumb through the more expensive suits.  
I savor both the black pinstripe three-piece and the dark blue three-piece and how they fit on my body.  
Dropping those on the counter, I fall in love with silk peach-colored shirts.  
What the heck! Might as well go all in! Don't worry about price right now!  
I try one shirt on that's a size smaller than my usual, and it's tight-fitting with buttons that yank at the holes.  
Good! That should seduce the clients even more!

I hesitate but decide I don't need to buy underwear. Why wear them when they would either wind up on the floor or ripped off my body at some point.  
And nothing on my feet. Saves time.

"You look exactly like a gentleman and not a whore," Eric approves the next day, showing off a suit and shirt.  
Walking seductively in front of him, he nods and says, "I like it."

Hanging up my suits, the light bulb moment goes off!  
Of course!  
How stupid!  
My theme!  
It has to be--the Bitten Peach!  
I gather pictures from magazines, frame them, and mount them on the walls.

In the window of an art gallery was an elaborately gilt-framed painting of a bunch of peaches. I purchased it to decorate the space over my bed.

Peach-colored sheets for the bed--- round ones.  
Never expect them to be so damn expensive!

A bunch of imitation peaches in a grey stone bowl tops off my coffee table!

My most useful discovery was a lubricant that smelt and tasted like a peach! It worked well because I used it on myself. I purchased enough to spread throughout each room. Even the kitchen.  
Now where to put the book? This was something special. It was Billys-- it was a symbol of my new life. Good or bad!  
And the book reminded me of a certain man. A teen. Whom I had only seen once.

At odd moments, I find myself thinking about him.

About Mike and his posh school posture, straight back, head high. Those intellectual eyes that pierce deep.

I casually ask around to see if Mike, my teen, had been in the red room since that first encounter. The answer was a shrug, and "I don't know who you are talking about."

During the first week, I had a few customers(Eric told me to stop using that word--it was client or participant). I developed my line, my signature to use after the door closed and the client and I were alone.

"This moment is yours. What would you fancy and--" with a pause--"where." It gave the impression I was at their beck and call--at least for the time allocated.

My first, a gentleman was straight forward. "Pull down those trousers, lean on the back of a chair, and present your ass." I handed him the lube. His fingers coated my hole, and I made the appropriate groans and cries when he entered.

When I gave myself to these men, it was a different feel. So what if they took what they wanted, so what if, after they left, I wanked myself or cleaned up the mess they made. So what! This was no 'take affair' only. I was greatly benefiting. Money!

My bikini thong was white with an embroidered peach on the front-- it's cleft a reminder of another ravine. A leaf climaxing at the stem.

The sign was white and painted boldly in orange letters, 'The Bitten Peach" hung on the exterior of the stage.

I was ready for Tuesday. Teen Tuesday.

Tuesday! I'm on the stage, everything in place.

The door opens, two enter. My heart is racing. The door closes. Disappointment rages within me.  
Tuesday again!

I'm not paying attention anymore to those drifting through the door. Instead, my mind goes back to the fellow that visited me last night.

It was his second time in three days. He insisted on staying clothed. He placed a DVD into the television box, and we proceeded to observe two women play with one another. He unzipped both of us, and it was sucking cocks that took him over the edge.  
But--Stan, the name he gave, left me a sizeable amount of cash on the table. He was not only generous money-wise but soft in his manner. I liked him.

"Hello, Bitten Peach," the rich voice taking me away from my preoccupation. And skipping my heart rate into fast speed.  
Mike!


	9. No More A Virgin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will happen when Mike meets Greg for the second time?  
> Beware of the smut!!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent almost a full night setting this chapter down.and then began the rewrites. I hope, my readers, you'll be kind and leave comments and kudos. I hope you continue this adventure with me, not knowing how many chapters to go. But I will finish. Play along with me, please?

Oh god! It’s him!  
It’s him, right here!

He holds the Bitten Peach facing me, “I requested your time to discuss this work with you.” 

I look over at Eric, and he nods his go-ahead. 

Look at him! The picture of a lawyer or accountant. His grey three-piece pinstripe suit, dark grey silk shirt. And what’s with the tie? A tie? Who the fuck comes to a whore house wearing a tie?

Look at me! The picture of a whore. My suit is a small strip of cloth, hiding my bare essential. 

* * *

My pulse races, and I’m conflicted. Should I Ignore him? Proclaim a sudden stomach ache to Eric? You know that you’re driven by curiosity, to explore this sudden want, this urge to know this strang 

I hop off the stadium and propel him ahead with the tips of my fingers touching his back.

Remember Greg. You’re a paid whore and nothing else. A blank face to the purchaser. 

So for what reason is my hand on his clothed back burning with contacting his exposed skin?

* * *

Mike’s standing in the middle of the parlor, letting his eyes wander as he observes every detail.

Is it the illustrations of peaches hung on the wall or-- the mirrors that delight him the most?

I cannot meet his gaze while I recite the familiar words, “this moment is yours. What would you fancy and--” pausing--“where.” 

My thumbs catching at tiny loincloth, preparing to drop it to the floor.

“No, No. Don’t do that,” clutching the volume as if it was his lifeline, “I have to speak about this--the book, that is--if you don’t mind?”   
His posture is inflexible, so solid I envision a broom handle hiding inside his clothing.

Idiot! Here you stand with almost nothing on your body and his so cloaked. It’s not only my skin that’s exposed, but I can’t keep from grinning. Ear to ear. Like a child with a favorite toy.

“Wait here,” I state, hurrying into the bedroom, needing to cover up. To be on equal ground.  
To conceal my vulnerability.  
“You don’t need to. I’m--,” losing the balance of his sentence to my banging the closet door open.

I thump my temple on it a couple of times, berating myself. Something is warning me. Send him out. Release him at this moment! Before--before what?

* * *

It’s no use, Greg. He’s a client. Someone who paid to spend sex time with you.

No matter what your feelings, you have to go with it.

Stepping into my jeans, I pull a steel blue t-shirt over my head. A rapid fingering through my hair, taking a full breath, and I’m ready to do whatever this client wishes.  
Uncertain why the snugness in my chest, or why I abhor myself.

* * *

My bare feet pad quietly on the floor when I return to the parlor. He’s sitting ramrod straight, not leaning.

His eyes twinkle with a slight bit of delight at my change of clothing.

“I read the Bitten Peach and its quite remarkable,” his voice subdued, a hint of embarrassment.

The Bitten Peach is sitting on his lap, one hand holding open to a page, the other rapping, tapping on the armrest.

He's frightened! He's confused!

His tongue poking in his cheek, his fingers unable to stay still, stay calm.

My arms wrap across my chest, and I know I’m feeling weak, accessible. Is it self preservation?  
I don’t have anything to fear, yet this serious young man is breaking the barriers I placed for strangers.

“Remarkable, you say?” a flow of warmth radiates out. 

He’s so adorable, so--childlike--so--naive. So naive!

“Remarkable is a strange term to use for a work such as that,” resisting the urge to pat his head, I sit across from him.

“I discovered it very engaging! Engrossing! I invested a great deal of energy in the library, exploring the Chinese dynasties. It appears it was customary for Chinese lords to have male concubines. What’s more, they could have been mere youths.” 

“Yes, it’s true. The overlords, particularly, would--.”   
Hesitating on how to phrase it, “train the offspring of their attendants. At the point where they reached their preteen, they were ready for his bed. You are correct--so many were male.” 

I only now recognize I’m perched on the edge of the seat, so wound up my legs stiffened. I push back and unwind, or try to, into the cushions.

“Why did you not adopt the expression ‘yang chu’ on your--,” his finger pointing in the direction of the crease in my jeans.  
I shrug, not answering.  
I sense the slight twinge of my cock towards that slender, piano-playing finger.

Staring at his fingernails, opening and closing his mouth, he vacillates. Leaning forward, daring me to follow his gaze, “you didn’t discover that book in a bin, did you? You lied to me. Why?” 

Ignoring the lie and ignoring his eyes, “A good friend gave me the book. He was my mentor.”   
Mike’s eyebrows raise, his mouth drops, and he doesn’t speak.

” Are you revealing to me that you had someone instruct you as a --,” his hands wave in the air.  
“Prostitute. Yes. He was one of the best--,” I stop short. Ashamed, flustered.  
“You allowed someone to--” he waves the book in the air, his voice an octave higher.  
He clears his throat, and the silence is now killing.

I stare at my knees, my toes, the rug.

Anything but facing him now knowing he has such personal knowledge of myself and my profession.

“It’s not my intent to denounce you or the profession you chose. My reasoning for being here tonight is twofold. But first, I intend to read certain passages from the book.

“And the second?” I gather myself to inquire.

“Clarification will come later, as he appears to dither. Unsure, he bites his lip, glances at the page, and reads aloud.

* * *

_At the captain’s command, the two cavalrymen, one at each arm of the young prince of Chou, pulled his naked body around to the side of the altar facing Qin Shih Huang and held him down, facing away from Qin Shih Huang, belly flat on altar and face turned to his still-struggling and cursing elder brother and father. Qin Shih Huang let his battle robe fall open to reveal his magnificent body and perhaps the longest and thickest hardened phallus in the realm. As he approached the hindquarters of the young prince of Chou, two other cavalrymen sprang forth to spread the young man’s legs and to pull his buttocks cheeks away to reveal a pulsating rosebud of an anus._

His cheeks flame, his voice softened. I need to lean forward towards him to hear more of his reading.

_With a cry of triumph and uttering the sacred creeds of the House of Qin, Qin Shih Huang strode up to and between the Chou prince’s spread legs, positioned his bulging cock cap at the young man’s hole with a steady hand, and then thrust hard and deep inside him. The young prince of Chou cried out in pain and violation and writhed, chest heaving and panting, face contorted in the taking, while Qin Shih Huang thrust in deep, searching motions inside him, seeking the resting of his heavy, quivering balls on top of his younger conquest’s. As Qin Shih Huang stroked, symbolically forging his renewed mastery over the House of Chou as well as enjoying himself immensely, the young prince slowly fell under the master taker’s spell as well—so that before long, not long before, he gave up his own seed against the vermillion flanks of the sacred Chou family altar, the young prince was crying out for more and moving with the taking rather than against it._

I knew all the scenes in that book forwards and backward.  
While he was reading, my lively imagination possessed him sprawled on that altar.  
My cock strains in the tight material of the jeans.  
Interrupting my thoughts, he asks, “may I have a glass of water?” 

* * *

His coat, vest, and tie are now hung over the seat back, his footwear set side by side on the floor close by the seat.  
My fingers brush his as he takes the glass, and I have the urge to kiss them.  
He has the delicate fingers of a harpist.  
Plucking at my strings, my heartstrings. 

He sips, his tongue wiping an escaped drop onto his lower lip. That lip that I want to--.

Stop this nonsense, Greg!  
My cock is dancing in my jeans, pulsing to its own cadence.  
I back away repulsed, and enchanted. Continue saying to yourself--he’s paid for your services.

The book is sat on the side table, he rises and sends his trousers to the ground. No undergarments.

Down onto his knees, shuffles to the coffee table and leans over, his shirt still covering the top half of him.

His fingers hold his rear end cheeks apart, “thrust deep with your yang chu, and be quick. My lord.” 

“Oh my god, Mike. I can’t do what you want,” watching his delightful earthy colored gap vibrating.

“I’m not asking, I’m ordering,” hearing his baritone voice for the first time, commanding.

It's too difficult!

Resistance is futile, and it’s amazing how swiftly, even with shaking fingers, I free myself of my jeans.

Oh, shit in hell! What have I gotten myself into? 

Without providing myself with more than a passing feeling of weakness, I kneel.

Dare I suggest lubrication?  
Dare I explain the callousness, the disregard for his emotional state, and would he listen?

“Gregory, I know what I want, continue.” 

I spread his legs further apart, and he lets go of his buttocks and lays his arms at his sides.

My cock quivers, my hands shake, as I line up.  
I can’t resist. One finger reaches over and cautiously traces the circle of his anus hole. Feeling its movement.

He groans but twists his head to stare, his eyes already glazed over.

My thick cock is in my hand with its precome leaking, and I rub it in his crack.

The creases of his wonderous hole shimmer with the gumminess.

Ignoring the desire to dive in, I place my tip at the opening and bump at the tiny breach. It opens as if inviting the intrusion.

He screams, trying to yank away. Jamming his fist against his mouth, he moans. His other hand white knuckles the edge of the table

It’s too much. I can’t step back now. I push in further but not the whole way.

I’m dizzy! The room spins around, and greed takes control.

I feel my cock trigger by his contractions and my testicles spasm.

My hands, one on each side of his hips, pull his luscious ass so rapidly towards me that my member plunges deep, deep. My hips are slamming into his full, delicious buns.

He attempts to wriggle away, out of my power, his fists beat on the table while he shrieks and twists.

Inside myself, the raging frenzy of my own need drives out his shouts, his misery.

I grudgingly draw my cock out leaving only the tip inside.

Go slow, I attempt to say to myself.  
Try to hold back. Feel your hardness, your cock in his tight ass, the spasming of his hole around--.

The more he cries, the more he groans, the more my balls constrict.

Lost in my lust for release, ignoring him in my hunger, I hammer my depravity into him, shoving intensely and deep.

With a large shout from my mouth, the waves of pleasure roll over and through my body, shattering all thought.

My volcano bursts and I spill in him, wave after wave, shuttering, shaking.

I’m still vibrating inside him, when he screams out, “I'm--its “--.

Shit! Shit! It ‘s--like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

I feel his orgasm grab hold, and his shivering body moves willingly to its own rhythm.  
I withdraw from him and fold myself over his back, our breaths simultaneously heaving. 

* * *

I release him, sitting on the floor.

Slow in his movements, he slides off the table and sits on his haunches, resting, then arduously gets to his feet.

The scrunching of his face, tear-stained and pale, discloses how much he hurts. Picking up his trousers, he slides them on, grimacing at the touch of fabric at his sore area. The front of his shirt shows the stains of his semen.

His shoes, socks in his grasp, and his clothing over his arm, he shuffles to the door.

" Mike--"

He opens the door, delays, head drooping, shuts the door.

I lean over the table, feeling his come soak into my shirt, and let out a sob.  
“Mike, Mike, what have I done? What have I done to you?” 


	10. Only A Client

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregs called to duty by Stan. Perform for a client of his and receive remuneration. It's just another client.

Broken!  
Empty. Stupid  
Hateful of myself.

How could I do that to anyone, let alone him?

But he specifically ordered it! And you're supposed to give the client what he requires--right?

He outright said, 'fuck me'.  
But to fuck his ass as his first experience with no lube, no foreplay?

I wash off, not daring to see the crippled reflection in my bathroom mirror. Next I throw the dirty garments in the hamper, and put on jeans and a shirt.

The weather is mild and without any idea of where to go, I pluck my keys off the hook, take off down the steps. I need to escape.

To walk to-- someplace.

Stuffing my hands in my jeans pockets, my head down I still can't stop my musings.

Students will be graduating. Moving on from all levels. That also implies university. And that means Mike also.

You know you are being one ludicrous man, don't you, Greg Lestrade?

Chewing over and wasting so much of your energy on a near youngster whom you only met twice.

Can't even ask Eric for his personal information. It's against the law.

Give it up you fool. Let it go!

Pretend he wasn't--it didn't-- it couldn't--

It's just before midnight, my cell pings, and lifting it to my ear, it's Eric, "Hey, I know you're out but Stan called. He could be here in an hour. Is it okay?"

"Yeah why not! Could use the company."

I make the about face towards home.

Stanley Appleby. One evening when he was in the bathroom I opened his wallet.  
I unfolded a picture of him in the middle between two women and three young children. His daughters and their kids? Nothing to show he has a wife.

One thing I do know is how concerned he is about his body image.  
His hair isn't full anymore, but still mostly black with threads of grey. His eyes are brown and he wears contacts, tinted blue.  
I distinguish a hint of a Germanic intonation, so he wasn't born in England.

It used to be that he would have his blowjob and leave. Now he takes the opportunity to laze in my bed after either a blowjob or jerking him off. He asks for nothing more and I give nothing more.  
And as always the inevitable cash placed under the peach pot.

Turning on the lights I'm torn between putting on a suit or staying in my jeans.  
Heck! Not switching.

Stans eyes light, his grin lecherous. "God, to be your age again and wear jeans as tight as those."

His arm stretches out, and shoves me back, "don't strip just yet."

I lose balance but he reaches out and assists both of us to the sofa.

Draping a leg over mine, he cups my chin, leans to lick my neck, to nibble on my ear, and I sigh, sensing the rising of my cock.

"I have to be in Carlisle Wednesday thru Friday. A very significant business conference. You are going with me to pose as my colleague. You are pleasant to look at, agreeable to most things, and intelligent. A perfect fit for what I need."

I lean slightly away to gauge him, to grasp his meaning.

"I'm sorry. Let me be clear. The proprietor of the firm is brash, fat, and conceited."

"What do you expect of me? I know nothing--,"

He puts a finger in his mouth, draws it over my lips, and murmurs softly," this individual likes to play at sex, to experiment."

I chuckle, " what you want of me is to dangle myself like a piece of cake and if he wants to eat I'm to give, right?"

" Yes. He's sampled me, in case you're curious."

"You get the contract and I get what?" a piece of cake, that's all it means to him and I shift out of his away.

" No don't be offended, please. This is one of the biggest deals my company has a chance to get. I know this man and his little mannerisms. It's well known."

His fingers trailing along my cheek, he's pouting.

" You're the ideal person to help me pull this off. "

"I'm hustling for this unknown person. Because you request it? Excuse me for being rude, but what's my take in this?"

"Oh, Greg. I wish--but--," he stands and shows his back, incapable of facing me, "You'll need more clothes--."

"That's it you fuck?" Clothes?" my displeasure boiling over, standing, and shoving him.

He loses his balance, takes some steps forward but regains equilibrium, and says,"let me finish. I'm offering eight thousand dollars and five more in the event I swing the agreement."

"I'll need to clear it with Eric."

"Already did so. You're good to go," gradually confronting me, eyes asking if it's good.

I smile and sit, my hand patting the cushion. He eagerly moves and thighs brush, his leg over mine.

"One thing though. I will not engage in any group activity. Is that clear?"

"Umm, yes," his mouth now at work huffing breaths in the seam of my jeans.

Entering Eric's office I drop my carryall on the floor.

Ripping a page from the pad on his desk, I remove a pencil out of the container, and write.  
I will be gone today until Saturday. Let Eric know when I can expect you back here. Greg  
"Hand this to Mike if he shows up, please Eric."  
I wonder whether it's my relationship with Stan or the enthusiasm for Mike that has brought on that frown.

We occupy a two-bedroom suite in the Waltham Merridith Hotel on the fifth floor. Tall glass windows, king beds, and the usual amenities that are typical for a five-star lodging.

The conference room is distinctive only in the fact that it contains a wood round table.

The standard pitchers of water, glasses, and scratch pads on the table. In the middle, a stack of red folders imprinted with the name of the organization.

Behind each seat stands the other participants. Five men and one woman.

Barnaby Gerber enters sporting a colossal grin. He's a bouncy ball type. Plump with a large roll of stomach plunging over his trouser tops and a Santa blush on his cheeks.

His eyes sparkle merrily when Stan introduces me.

His eyes stray to my crotch.

My stomach lurches. I don't need to attempt to entice him. He's already there.

During the negotiations, I know nothing of what they speak of but type whatever on my laptop. Keeping up appearances.

We're all invited to dinner in the hotels' restaurant.

Stan leaves first to go to the mens room, and Barnaby pushes back his chair, stands, and whispers in my ear.

"The tower room has a brilliant view, and their bar presents a fabulous brandy."  
A short breath and he licks his bottom lip, "Mister Lester," his hand pats my thigh.

I'm supposing that's my cue to follow him.

The evening is warm and we stand on the balcony outside the bar.

I accept a glass and hum approval when the taste of the brandy hits my tongue.

"Mister Lester, Greg. We should put the cards on the table. I realize you are not legitimately a partner of Stanleys. Just because you see a heavy cigarette smoker who is obese doesn't imply I have no intelligence. I didn't come up in this world without noticing details."

He stops me with a lift of his hand.

"Tell me who you truly are? I know you're not a business collegiate of Stans, yet I can guess."

Taking a breath, knowing that to lie would be defeating our purpose, I speak in a hush, "You're right. I don't work directly for Stan. I'm a paid prostitute."

His eyes enlarge and he freezes, glass held steady.

" Not his own paid whore. I'm certain it would be out of his domain," assuring him. "I work for an organization, a small one that caters to high-end individuals."

He unwinds and focuses, his hand holds the glass in two fingers, "so you're his- - recreation?"

Suddenly, before I can answer he laughs, a big belly laugh, his body shaking.  
"Oh, this is good," finally able to choke out the sentence.  
"Mister Greg Lester, if that's your name. Is Stan is so concerned about this contract he's willing to pay you, a prostitute to prevail upon me? Right?"

I nod.  
Nothing else needs be said.

"You comprehend this procedure isn't unfamiliar to me. Nearly everybody realizes I like men's genitals over women. Not enough to openly pronounce my gayness. I knew very well that our organizations would function admirably together."

I look at him, astonished, "then--."

"Why does everyone assume that we have to wangle and deal before signing? I knew this was best for both firms days ago."

I chuckle hardily. Understanding this man is not dumb," you wanted to see what he would come up with."

"I must concede this is a first. Never had a prospective client hire a prostitute." His chuckle is heartfelt and he polishes off his drink and deposits the glass on the nearest table.

"Mister Lester, how do we proceed with this charade? It interests me. What might you do, I wonder? Do you have limitations?"

The minutes tick off and I must be cautious. Give too much and I lose myself--give close to nothing and I lose what? I'm doing a balancing act.

"No ass fucking and no orgies. But I will promise to be at your beck and call."

He turns, leaning on the concrete railing, "how interesting. A prostitute yet he sets limits."

"Any duty has limits so we might consider this our little contract."

" Beck and call, is it? Regardless of where it is or when it is? I'll agree to no ass fucking but reserve the right to finger fuck."

I know when to call it quits and a bit reluctantly nod my yes.

He works out a chuckle, his hand stretching to my groin and he mashes my privates.

I bend, flinching at the discomfort he's causing and the grossness of his familiarity.  
Why should it surprise me? I'm a whore!

"I warn you, Mister Lester, my craving for sex is as large as my hunger for food. Show me your mettle and I might have a lavish reward waiting for you."

There's no more to say for the reason that he's opened his fly and lies back on the nearby lounge bench.

I can see the spilling of his pre-come even in the shadowy darkness.

"Begin your work, Mister Lester."

It's to Stans credit that he doesn't comment on the 'I'm going out', or the 'I won't be in the room until late'. He knows.

The first occurrence is a call on the hotel phone summoning me to his room.  
It's Thursday two am, and I wipe the tiredness from my eyes.

The bedroom's illuminated by one lamp, and it reflects off the body of the man lying on the bed.  
I climb on and without any instructions do what I know how to do. Suck him off.

"Shit and shit. Holy fucking shit!" his breath normal, his voice almost level.

"I daresay, you do the most wonderous things with your tongue and lips. Never had anyone as accomplished as you."  
I only wish I was younger and have you blow me all night. Fuck, that was remarkable! I guess you can leave now. But--warning you. I'm going to use you as much as I can."

Sliding off the bed, "goodnight sir," and walk back to my room feeling good about myself.

But does the image of Mike reach into the oddest moments? Yes!  
I try to explain it rationally. He's young, he's inexperienced. He's cute. He's got the most charming upper-class posh voice.  
That's not good enough. It's deeper than that. It starts in my head, goes into my heart, and--not just my cock. It's not all sex. So unexplainable. I have a stupid crush on a fucking kid that briefly passed my way.

The phone rings, bringing me back to reality, and reaching my arm out I wearily pick it up. Ready to do what I'm being paid for.

The clock's red glow tells me it's after five. Have I been awake all this time?

"My door is unlocked. Remove your clothing and Join me on my balcony."

I have to wonder how much sleep I'm going to manage for the next nights. Sounds like my client is randy at all hours.

His room is dark, a touch of the beginnings of dawn peeping in. Lying spread eagle, naked on the chaise lounge, he's eager, his cock full height.

My ears hear the turbulence below and looking, I jump back.

"Shit. Those people in the pool could look up and possibly see what we're about."

"One of my small sins. The thrill of it gives me goosebumps. In a modest way, I'm a voyeur but terrified at getting exposed."

I'm down on him, torn between arousal and concern, but the cock in my mouth is uppermost more important.

I open the door to the conference room knowing I'm a shade late.

Stan greets me with a hug, and Barnaby takes my arm literally setting me in the space next to him.

Much of the meeting one chubby hand rests on my leg, or on my crotch.

Stan is sitting on my other side and one time his fingers drop to my thigh and encounter Barnabys, and he jerks away, choking but with a knowing smirk.

Hell! That's all I can think of! Hell!

We break for lunch, and Barnaby lurches forward, pushing his chair away, and clutches at my arm.

Over his shoulder he barks," go get lunch. I'm going to show Mister Lester around."

Out in the hall he says, "need the bathroom. Join me."

He opens a stall, closes the toilet seat and with a great effort sets himself down.

He fetches his prick out into the open air.

I make quick work of getting his cock soft again.

As much as I admit to myself that I'm worried about this type of adventure the lower part of me reacts in a positive way.  
I'm not able to retain my cool and stay limp. So far I've had to jerk off each time.

The familiar jingle of the hotel phone wakes me on Wednesday night at one am, and I leave for his room.  
What now?

Two of the floor lamps are situated in such a way as to illuminate his body which is partly hidden by the sheet.

A video camera on a tripod is prominent at the foot of the bed.

"Sorry, sir, I don't do pictures. A clause in my contract with my employer."

He leans up on his elbows, "pssht, this is only for my enjoyment after you've gone."

As much as I fear he'll be angry I cannot take chances. My work depends on it.  
"Sorry, no go," waiting for him to kick me out.

"Okay, okay. Push it to the corner, and take off those clothes. Would it meet with your approval if we watch a video of an orgy?"

"As long as you don't expect me to be in one then it's okay," shifting onto the bed while he hunts for the DVD.

Thursday at lunch he drags me to the parking lot and keys open his car, a Mercedes.

Opening the back door he shimmies in and immediately takes his cock out.

"Just lean over and do it."

To an outsider, it looks like I'm chatting with him.

"Oh shit, oh damn! " he explodes both in words and liquid.

I'm so fucking stiff in my pants that within seconds of him, I'm following suit.

He tucks in, and notices the stain and falls into peals of laughter.

"You see. Even you, my dear whore, can't resist the titillation.

During dinner, Stan is in a shitty mood but I can't get him alone to ask what's wrong. And I don't think I can reveal that the deal is already fixed.

Stan leaves for the bar after we eat, and I see my chance to address the problem.

"Whats the matter," I ask.

"Are you having fun," the scorn in his voice and on his scowling face is enough.

"The man is very demanding, Stan, and I'm trying to do as he wants. You did warn me."

" I can't get a moment with you. But," sighing deeply and picking up his filled glass," you're doing exactly what I asked of you. So I suppose I should shut up and let it be."

I retreat to my room and turn the telly on and wait.

The expected call occurs," I'll be at the pool."

Asking what to wear, I can hear the soft laugh, "stay dressed."

The area looks so surreal with tiny decorative lights strung in the shrubs.

Surreal in the fact that I know we're going to-- or he's going to-- have his dick in my mouth while the lights twinkle around us.

He motions to one chair that is away from the rest, sort of hidden from view.

Unsure of what to do I freeze.

The sound of his zipper is enough to make me jump. Jittery.

"Have at it. I'm so ready anyway. Won't take long, "his whisper seems to echo off the walls.

"Go on," after his orgasm is complete," take yours out and let me watch you dribble on the floor."

How easy it is to accommodate him!

It's after breakfast and all negotiations are wrapped up and signed.

A day earlier than Stan expected.  
He's thrilled and almost throws himself across the table at me as we all shake hands.

"We could spend some time sightseeing. I would love that," my understanding is I have no choice.

Barnaby leans over, his hands full, licks his lips and silent but loud enough that Stan and I can hear, "I'd like to borrow your associate at one tonight."

Stan is confused but leaves me to decide.

I don't have to but--.

"Oh go ahead! It's fine with me, "annoyed, stomping out of the room.

Again we're on his balcony but this time the noises from the pool indicate a party.

He takes to the chair and I engulf his cock for what I assume is the last time.

It isn't.

I'm woken up by the phone, again, and note the early morning hour. The sun is not up yet, and I glumly rise.

I'm startled to see him sitting in the desk chair, fully dressed.

What now? What has he got devised for us?

>

"My friend the prostitute. And a good one at that. Can you guess what I have in mind now?"

"Not at all? But I'm sure you're going to tell me," not doing well in hiding my sullen mood.

" Don't fret. You're going to enjoy this one. I want at you. Meaning I would like to taste your cock."

My mouth drops, my eyes are wide.

At the bed, he sits and says," I want lessons. You've given me some of the best blowjobs I've had. I want you to show me how it's done. On your cock."

"You mean, "uncertain," you're telling me that--,"

"Oh, get out of your clothes and stop acting surprised," unbuttoning his shirt.

"I'm flattered," my trousers down, my shirt was thrown on the floor.

" Don't be flattered. I'm being very selfish right now. Because the next cock sucker that comes along will never be as good as you. Maybe, just maybe, I could teach--never mind. Too much talk."

"Lie on the bed and spread those thighs. Give me lessons and I'll give you one shit ass suck."

I'm spent. Done.

"Do me once more. And if you would, I'd like a finger up my ass," his cock swaying, his legs spread wide.

" Before you go," he says," make sure you take the envelope that's on the dresser."

I draw a breath in sharply when I take out and count five thousand dollars, all in hundreds.

The moment I poke my head into Stans room that morning I can tell he's upset.

He plays with the catch of his suitcase. "Some breakfast before we head out?"

He's--it cant be, but he's jealous!

Good god, he knows what I am! But it's never been thrown in his face like this.

I move closer, then closer still, not daring to touch, "come on. He was only a client. And you paid me to do this--," his lips stop me from talking.

He backs off, picks up the bag.

The elevator door squeaks open but he checks me, throwing his arms around my shoulders, bringing me against his body.

His lips are solidly hard against mine.

I'm struck by his fervor, his intensity. My tongue reaches out, dives into his mouth.

It's over just as quickly, "Sorry, I wish I could have you for my own but--," sighing, "let's enjoy the time we have left and forget everything else. Okay?"

I'm numb with shock. I appear to be more than his occasional fuck. But--his family, his work--whatever it is--I'm not his to claim.

If that's what I wanted

"I hope you enjoyed yourself," was Eric's opening statement when he handed me my itinerary for the next days.

"Yes, thank you," noticing a full schedule.

My heart rate accelerates, my knees feel weak, as I read the list.

"Yes, he's on there for Tuesday afternoon at one. I gave him your note. He paid for extra time and I granted it. But--don't make this a habit. You have other clients to work with."

Tuesday is a long way off.


	11. It's The Last Peach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg doesn't expect Mikes's surprise. It's all about the Bitten Peach.   
> Role-playing is the theme.  
> It's also a move-on chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is fucking and fingering. But there is love.

If staying awake and brooding is a sign of anxiety then I have it--full-blown.

Can't decide which I want more--for him to forget he has an appointment or him to be knocking at my door.

As the hour approaches, the one o'clock hour my stomach curls.

My heart is moving at double the rate, my lips are dry.

It's a bit daft, but I can't figure out what to wear. I must have at least half a dozen shirts thrown on the bed.  
Damn! Let's make it easy.  
A white shirt and the grey pinstripe suit, and I leave off the vest.  
Try as I might, I can't fix my tie because my hands are shaking.  
Shit! Don't need it anyway!

A dab of peach cologne, and a drink of water.  
As I pass the bedroom, it strikes me that we might be using the bed, so I hurry to hang up the shirts.  
That's a sight better!  
Is my nervousness showing? You better believe me it is!  
So bad that twice I've opened my door, run into the hallway, ready to bolt away before he arrives.

Hand on the railing I stop before I hit the first tread, turn and walk back.

The chime strikes one. The second hand relentlessly moves. One minute after one. Two minutes.

Sitting--legs crossed--the paragon of casualness. Sanding-- pacing--the peak of vulnerability.

The doorbell tolls, jangling my nerves.

I run, stumbling over the edge of the rug to open the door.

The young man of my fantasies stands there.

He's holding a bouquet of spotted black-orange tiger lilies and a bright orange box.

Breathing heavy, I'm stuck, the door partially open.

He snickers," aren't you going to invite me in?"

Jumping upon hearing him have an actual voice, I step aside," yes, yes, do come in."

"I brought you--," holding out his offerings.

When I still don't move, don't acknowledge him, he tilts his head to the side, "what is the matter, Greg? Take them!" his arms held stretched out.

Still can't open my mouth, but I numbly grab at both, look around, and set them on the coffee table.  
"Do you need me to leave? You seem so distracted," one foot hesitantly, then the other stepping away.

Swinging my head side to side and shaking myself internally, "no, no. So sorry. I was thinking of something--" and hastily run into the kitchen.

'Jeez, Greg,' I say to myself. 'Get ahold. Get a grip.'

In the kitchen, I dribble water into a vase and deposit the flowers.

In the parlor once more, he says, "open it," a vision of boyish joy, a pure open smile.

Pom poms of chocolate candies each with a small peach sitting delicately on the top.

He backs away from me, bows from the waist and with a faltering voice says, "Your emperor sir. My father cannot pay his monthly rent. He has given me to you to do as you wish."

I don't have a clue where this is going or what to do so I wait.

Shoes and socks off, trousers on the ground, no underwear.

Fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt, he lets it fall onto his pile.

Underneath his clothing he had a simple grayed, peasant robe with a rope tied around his waist.

The sleeves are wide and hang past his fingers.

The outfit is of a beggar whose lone garment is what's on his back.

He averts his gaze, his conduct that of a menial to a ruler.

"Role-play it is then," going to the bedroom and opening my closet.

Towards the back of the wardrobe on a hanger is my red Chinese silk robe embellished with gold-stitched mythical serpents and green stalks with orange and green leaves.

Undressing quickly, I place the robe on myself, feeling the fineness of the silk.

It swirls out, reaching the ground, and the long butterfly sleeves billow to my hips.

His eyes twinkle when he views my attire

He immediately drops to his knees with his forehead hitting the rug.

"Your Most High. I grovel before you. My inferior parent gives my unassuming self as his yearly tribute. He cannot pay you and implores you to use me as your loyal servant."

He's showcasing one the stories from the Bitten Peach book.

I sit in the chair, fanning my robe open enough, so the tip of my cock peeps out.

I'm grinning inside.

I have to perform the role of his disdainful sovereign and so contract my face into a scowl.

"Didn't your house receive its share from your farmers?" my voice somewhere deep, autocratic.

" Just two days ago, my honorable lord, they made their way to our house. There was little in crops that they could give us. They each gave us the use of one of their offspring to work in our fields. In this way, by the next harvest, you will have both this year and next year's tribute."

I nod approval, but he carries on with the tale.

"That night there was much celebrating. The drink was flowing around the table. I was there to help fill the vessels. The men were pulling at me, grabbing at my backside, sliding their hands under my shirt to feel my privates."  
"Where were your sisters?" trying not to disturb too much of his account.

"I am the only child," his head sinking further if that was possible.

"Before the evening had ended my father bade me slither under the table

I crawled under and his five tenants who were sitting there had their stick out, flapping in the air.

Taking turns with them, I made rain for each."

Gracious, dear god! He's made my cock fucking harder than--than--.

"It's right to obey your father. He brought you into this world to be a servant to his house. Now your mouth is tainted by those unwashed beasts."

"Oh, great one! Forgive me. I only did what my father bade me do, "dropping to the floor, his arms splayed out, prostrating himself.

If I don't splatter my come right now, it's a miracle.

"Up on your knees, for I will cleanse you with my stick."

My robe spreads open to expose my stiff, hard as the earth is round, cock.

His eyes widen as he scoots on his knees, the wriggling snake has caught his attention.

"Oh, but master. Your stick is like a log. No like a tree! Might I--could I--."

Leaning forward, I grasp him by the back of the neck, and I plunge my cock deep to my balls.

"Feed on my tree until my sap runs."

I rumble deep in my throat, holding him tight, and let the surges of ecstasy rise, tightening balls, chest, and hips.

My hand grips his hair, pulling on it, while the streams of come tear out of me into him.

I withdraw, slumping in the seat, while the ripples of spasms tear through every inch, every fiber of myself.

Mike sits back on his haunches, idling, as the spunk dribbles down his chin and on his chest.

His eyes stay fastened to the ground, still playing his role.

"Is my emperor done with me?"

"You dare! Do you dare ask? You, a cockroach," pounding a fist on the arm of the chair.

"Would that I was able, I would stuff my pleasure wand in you again! Little worm."

Oh damn! My cock flutters at the prospect of another go.

"Turn and present me with a glimpse of your back door."

Lifting the white costume, he bows, and he shifts around and lifts his hips in the air.

My eyes widen, I gulp so hard that I feel my throat constrict.

Gorging my eyes upon the two creamy cheeks, and the rift between, I barely see a flash of a coffee-colored opening.

I gulp again.

Shit! I'm so psyched to gain mastery over him! To rip his posh self to shreds. Tear him from within and without.

" You are as ripe as the peaches sitting in the bowl on my table. Have you been initiated into the bitten peach ritual?"

"No. My father has told me about the ritual," continually twisting his fingers.

"I have not gained admission into this sacred of traditions, oh wisest of the wise," he chokes, not moving from his position.

It's almost like the excitement before you bite into a ripe peach.

Your teeth sink in, the juices slide down your throat, the lushness arouses your taste buds to mentally have an orgasm.

That's the moment I'm having as I growl, " So, it will be my amusement for tonight. It will be as if the gods have come from heaven."

A delightful heat coils in my belly. How long can I keep going before--?

" Master, be kind, please."

Okay! This is a cue of some sort. I hope I'm reading it right.

"Kind? To you? You who would not exist if I chose to say so. I could have your head cut off, your yang chu sliced in pieces and stuffed in your mouth."

It's easy to open my hand and with a swift movement drive it down to slap at his ass.

He jumps but says nothing.

I slap each cheek two times, the redness blooming on each one.

Sitting down, my body shakes from the exertion and the drama.

I can hardly breathe but pulse out the words," come closer. I will inspect what has been offered. If I find it lacking, I will have your balls for my dinner."

He scurries back, and I stare hard at his rear, those tinged reddish-pink cheeks. The split between that contains the passage to an opening I can hardly wait to see or stroke.

I imagine my tongue brushing strokes between those spheres.

I convulse with arousal.

I rest the palm of my hands, one on each of his round globes, stroke, and then, with a violent push spread them wide.

I must taste.

My tongue rests at his lower back just where his crack begins.

I lick from top to bottom, skipping over his opening but continuing until I touch his perineum.

I can detect his whispers, his groans.

Those sounds of his sending me back up to his tantalizing opening.

I taste the moistness, breathe the earthiness.

Spongy, bouncing and throbbing every time my tongue washes over.

Mike purrs, squeals.

My cock bobs between my thighs, exposing the need to satisfy itself.

Not yet.

Creasing my tongue, I focus it on his hole and slip inside.

"Ahh," Mike sings.

More. I need more than my tongue to be within these walls.

This time around, I will not go in without lubrication.

My hands tremble as I flip open the cap.

My face, my chest, my back is blanketed in a sheen of sweat.

Covering my fingers with the peach smelling oil, I drop the container on the floor.

He keens, he shivers.

I trace one finger around the rippled skin, poking gently and feeling the resistance.  
The passage to another world.

Regret is not on my agenda. Instead, it's complete and utter exhilaration.

"Because your mouth continues to wag, I will enter your chamber in many ways. I choose to finger your inside first. And once I've inspected every corner, I will enter my log, and you will let me make rain inside."

My finger, not my tongue weaves closer to the object of my desire.

My delight shoots in blasts through and around my balls.

My finger wriggles like a snake, my nail penetrates first, and the crater widens. Luring me to yield and enter.

He bucks and murmurs, his head cradled in his hands.

Fascinated at the passage opening, I nimbly widen it by working in two more fingers.

Like a blossom, his chamber opens to embrace. Exploring, I spread my inserted digits wide to arrive at each delicate point.

"Argg, ohh," whining and squirming with each movement inside.

One by one, I remove my fingers, and as the last one pulls out, he tumbles to the ground.

"I will send you back to your family a chosen one. Your father will be proud that you are now a man. Able to service other men when your father needs you to."

"Yes, my lord. "

I order him to stand and shed his robe and face me.

He folds his hands over his genitals and looks away.

"Why do you hide your yang chu? Is it inadequate? Let me see," pulling his hand away.

His cock rises.

" You are fortunate the gods made your yang chu of good size."

He barely hides his smile.

"It is your ass opening that is required for the ceremony of bitter peach. Turn and prepare yourself."

I slatter a large glob of peach lubrication to his brown pulsing entrance.

And do the same to my equally pulsing cock.

I've resolved that this experience will be gentler than last time.

With one hand on either side of his midsection, I draw him between my legs and hold him over my cock.

My rigid cock jerks in its awareness, the tip connects, as if tempted to the bait.

"Bear down, but easily, young slave. It is wise to feel every nuance of my yang chu being welcomed into your crater."

He sighs as he feels only the crown of my cock committing itself to his opening.

Easing himself gingerly onto it, his gradual descent drags out each moment of ecstasy.

Our crooning, our babbling blend with each tiny move.

"I give you pleasure,eeiiihhhaaa?"

"Yes, my little servant, ohhhh!"

As the smooth cheeks of Mike's bum settle entirely into my lap I feel full, content, brimming with pleasure.

It is the closest I had ever been and could ever be to Mike.

Small thrusts at first.

The pressure of Mike's cock, the compression, the resistance.

Rocking my hips up into his body and lifting him to sink back down on my cock.

The hotness bubbles, the demand smolders

I urge him up with my hands to where only the head of my cock rests inside and, savoring the sensation, repeat the motion.

Tears run out, and I'm gasping with the strain.

Try not to surrender just yet.  
A couple more strokes.  
A few more minutes of ecstasy.

Sweat slips my hands off his waist, sweat drips alongside the tears.

"Master, master," he cries," need to--my yang chu is going to rain."

"Yes, yes, do it--" as I splinter in a million pieces.

Tremor after tremor while inside him finally gives and I pulsate stream after stream.

White noise, white fillets of light, whiteness everywhere.

I'm dimly aware of his back arching, his screams as he spews his come.

My forehead rests against his drenched shoulder and I stroke his back.

Barely remembering where I am and who I am, I enfold him in my arms, dragging, shuffling us across to the sofa.

Settling down, I lay him across my lap, and with the tenderest of touches, my fingers pet his arms, his neck, his hair.

My lips trail lines on his temple, and his nose.  
Scarcely acknowledging what I do next, my lips reach to taste his lips.

Curled against me, he answers my lips, while soft sobs shake his body.

I ache. Wishing to pour the words of love out of my mouth, however, don't dare.

"Shh, my babe. Shush, my love. It's good. It's all good."

"Where is your life headed now that you're graduated?"

His teary face emerges from my shoulder, and we talk of futures.

Despite what we may feel, we don't discuss a tomorrow with us in it.

My eyes start to flutter close, and I lift him in my arms, his weight a simple nothing.

Easing him on my bed, I tiptoe to the bathroom, wash and come back to clean him.

I cradle him in my arms, rocking and humming.

My lips brush his hair, his ear, neck, and gradually the world falls away.

I awaken with a start, my hand reaches out to him--but instead, I feel only the sheet. A wrinkled sheet but cold, his warmth is already gone.

My head bobs up, alarmed. Where is he? Did I hallucinate or was it real?

On the pillow where his head once lay is a white envelope.  
I open it, read it and, let out a scream.

A note. That's all I have left.

The doorbell sounds, awakening me.

The day is presently night, and flinging on my robe, my heart pounding, 'its' Mike. He's back,' and hastening to the door.  
Opening it --to see a newcomer, expecting to step in. My next client.

"No, no. Go away. Disappear," slamming the door.

His fists pound and he yells, "What the fuck? I paid for you, you slimy whore, you queer," and suddenly silence.  
It's Eric who imposes next by calling me, "why aren't you taking on your next client? He's fucking mad. What are you doing?"

"I can't. I just can't. Give him his money back. I'll be down to you in a few minutes."

I march into Eric's office, determination in every step.

He's leaning on the front of his desk, his legs planted wide, cracking his knuckles.

He's angry and I understand why.

"I gave you time with that little shit kid, and this is how you repay me? I've been good to you--."

"Stop," my hand on his arm," please listen to me. You have been fantastic. I can't thank you enough. But--I've got an opportunity to give myself a better chance in life. I am quitting as of now. Please understand," my eyes focused on him.

"Now? Quitting now? What about your clients?" softer, knowing him, his brain is working a mile a minute.

"You can give them to one of the others. I'm not able to perform."

I hang my head, but don't give in.

"Do you have a place to stay?"

Shaking my head no, he surprises me by saying, "stay for the next week. It will take me time to fill your vacancy anyway."

"I ask one favor. Call Stan tomorrow and ask him to come right away. He's the one client who--."

Waving his hand in dismissal, "You don't need to explain--I'll call. No wait, I know where to reach him now. Why don't I text him, and you can tell him yourself?"

Noon is the agreed upon time.


	12. A Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The note that Mike leaves has Greg repulsed at where he's allowed his life to go. His doubt, his loathing of himself takes its toll.

From the first moment I opened the door and saw the stranger, the client, I recognized that this life was over.

I knew I couldn't prostitute myself any longer. I did not need to--now.

Why did I choose to do this in the first place? I could have found employment in a warehouse, in a factory, or anything other than this.

Of course, I would never have run into Mike.

In light of it all, would that be such a bad thing?

I have nothing. Nothing but two days and a note written by him. His handwriting.

Leaving Eric's office after giving him notice, my feet turn towards the hall and upstairs, but I stop.  
Not yet. Can't face that room, that memory, that note-not yet.

I step outside and lean against the light pole. The night air is crisp; the signs of fall are already invading the air.

An elderly couple, holding hands, their bodies so close a paper couldn't fit, passed me by.

I sighed.  
That could, would never be me.

A beanstalk of a man forging ahead, his dog on the other end, the leash taut, drags both down the street.  
It evokes a smile, sort of.  
More a longing for worlds I could never hope to see.

I wish I smoked, but gave that up years ago.

Should I let my feet guide me to the closest pub?  
No, Don't be a jerk. You'll get blindingly drunk, pass out and have the bomb of a hangover when Stan arrives.

Ah well, picking my body off the pole, I'll indulge in a few chocolate biscuits at the place around the corner.

Ellen, the owner, knows me well. She picks up her stores' signature red square box and plucks two of the gooey pastries that I always order.  
"Make that three," if I'm going to do this, then I'm going to do this.

Back at the building, I step inside and check up quickly as everything begins to crash around me.

I can't go upstairs. Can't.

I lower my ass on the second step, place the pastry box on the floor, and hug my knees, rocking.

The scent of the pastries permeates the air up into my nose.  
One sits in my hand, and for some reason, I stare--and stare some more.  
It's the same as I always buy. Nothing has changed.  
That's a relief, at least.

The powdered sugar slops onto my trousers as I bite deeply into the cloying chocolaty center.  
Who cares! Who cares indeed!

I must get to my room. Must climb the stairs Must get some sleep. Must.  
Standing, I turn, grip the railing white-knuckled, and begin the task of heaving myself up, the box under my arm.  
One-- two--three steps.

The weight of my sadness, the doubts over who I am combust into tiny bursts of accusations.

You could have been--. You might have done--.

You might have looked through Mikes' wallet as you did Stans. Gained some knowledge of him.

You could have--. You could have--you ought to have--.

Might have been an upstanding member of society, of the country, of the world.  
Might have stayed in contact with your mum. Your sister.

Eight--nine-- ten steps.

Face it you stupid ass. You were his fuck, that's it in a nutshell.

You were--still are--a whore.  
But there's a doubt that niggles at my brain.  
If I was only his whore then why the lavish unselfish gift?  
But why me? His bitter peach. His ass fucker. His whore. His whore! His whore!

Twelve--thirteen, and I stumble, stop and catch hold of the railing.  
I'm wasted. In both heart and body.  
Everything is too much, too soon.

All I want to do is wriggle into my bed, hide under the swaddling wrap of my covers.

Key. Where is the key? Fumbling in my pockets I take it out, juggling the desserts under my arm.

I drop the red container, drop shoes, shirt, and trousers on the way to the bathroom.  
I watch the course of my urine drop into the bowl and when it stops I flush.  
Wishing I could flush myself with it.

Crawling into the softness of my bed, I stretch my legs out.  
And encounter a clump of--cloth?  
Reaching my hand under, my breath catches and at the back of my throat, I coo.

Its Mikes' robe, smelling of his woodsy cologne, his muskiness.  
Taking it close to my breast I rock like a baby.  
My Mike. No, not mine any longer.  
No tears yet. I know they'll come, but the warmth between the sheets and his robe seduces me to sleep.

I wake, startled with the sensation of struggling for breath, feeling suffocated. My brain comes online and I understand I've encased myself under sheet and duvet.

I fling off the covers, the slivers of light that break through the sides of the shades blinds my eyes. Squinting I spy the clock on the nightstand and it reads eleven.  
Time to move my butt.

The note, Still lying open on the pillow next to my head, where it lay from--was it yesterday?  
I pick it up, feeling as if it weighed more than the moon, and release it.  
It's in my manicured fingers again, and with a deep sense of awe, plus dread I reexamine each word, each letter.

Greg

I have, knowing you are an unconventional man loved you. More atypical than any individual of my standing would be familiar with.

I snort. I'm not surprised. He's of a posh family. Why would he have dealings with my sort in his everyday life?

I have my family name and my future to consider. In my future, there can be no you. It is with deep regret that I say adieu.

I have opened, in your name, an account with the Bank of England, the total sum inscribed below.

Seeing it for the second time I still have to say holy shit! It's immense! So significant that again, I wipe my eyes, removing the possibility of my viewing too many zeros. But those zeros are there. In abundance!

This is your passport to the future. To university and further.  
It would be painful for us both if you should endeavor to discover my identity or whereabouts.  
I will always carry you in my heart.  
Mike-your peach.

No! not going to accept his charity. Won't take a farthing out of it. No!

Cocking my head, staring at the purpose for those zeros I ask myself, 'Isn't this your chance at a future different from this?  
Your bank account has been increasing but not enough to even pay for your first year.'  
I don't want to live on campus with all the young people. Would be embarrassing, to say the least.

The events of the past days have caught up to me and my eyelids grow heavy and drop even though I try to evade sleep.  
Will I dream of him?

Finally, I cannot resist the pull of slumber.

Fragments of light break through the slats of the blinds, and it's strong enough to arouse me out of my intense sleep.

Time to get myself together whether I like it or not and rise and shower. Get myself cleaned up for Stan.

I roll out of the bed and, my legs give way.  
I crumble into a pile on the floor and lie there, striking out at my loathing for myself, as I beat my forehead on the rug.

Greg Lestrade, you're a study in depravity!  
You've lost your feeling of pride. You've lost a feeling of what your identity is or was.

The doorbell rings and I swallow hard, take a breath, and rise on my jellylike legs.

My trousers lie on the floor from the previous evening and I slip them on and open the door.

"Good afternoon--. Holy shit, Greg!" His eyes wide, sucking in a breath, and a hand over his mouth.  
"You look like--. What the fuck?"

Lacking the strength to support myself, my legs buckle.

He swiftly grasps me around my middle and settles me to the couch.

"What the hell has happened?" fussing, pushing my hair back from my face, feeling my arms, chest, and the sweaty coldness.

It's then his nose wrinkles, sniffing, " you haven't showered in how long?"  
Pulling me back onto my feet, he firmly says, speaking as though to a child," A washing mister. Right now!"  
Giving me a hefty push towards the bathroom, he resumes, "while you're in I'll make you something to eat. Because I'm surmising you haven't put anything in your mouth in a while."

I'm sat on the toilet while he turns the faucet on.

Falsely cheery, "take your trousers off by yourself. If I do it I'm liable to suck your cock."  
He receives the chuckle from me he intended, and I slide them off.

"Good. Come into the kitchen when done," and goes to walk away.

"Oh yes. Make sure you have something on. To hide that gorgeous body. Don't want to be raping you--just yet."

He's definitely trying to buoy me up

The only thing I washed yesterday was my cock. The smell of our combined sweat still lingers.

I'm humiliated. Humiliated he should see me in this state. Humiliated at what I am, what I've become.

My thick white robe wraps tightly around my body, comforting me in its luxury.

I smell the glorious odors of food, the saliva already frothing and my mouth waiting.

Without a sound, I sit and Stan doles out sausage and eggs. A cup of coffee, just the way I like it sits steaming next to the plate.

My robe and this man encase me in a bubble of calm.

He casually sips on his coffee while waiting for me to finish.  
I know inside he's a boiling caldron.  
Waiting to hear what has brought me to this state.

"Leave the dishes. I'll clean later. Let's go back to the parlor or would you prefer to sit here?"

I stand, offer my hand--he takes it and we sit on the sofa with our hands still joined.  
His thumb brushes circles on the back of mine. Soft, slow, and encouraging.

The moments tick by and I don't have the foggiest idea where to start.

" I've cleared my schedule until tomorrow night. However and whatever you want I'm here for you," his words soothing, soft.

His other hand reaches over to squeeze my knee.

There's no other person I'd rather confide in. There's no other person I have to confide in.

"I--that is--he--that is--." tripping over my tongue.

I release my hand, walk to the bedroom, and reach for the note.

Carefully, as if it was a religious parchment I relinquish it to Stan.

He reads, sets it on the coffee table, and sits back, looks up at the ceiling, and sighs.

"Appears someone else has been enchanted by one Greg Lestrade."

"You?" incredulous, "I didn't know. You never said," blinking rapidly at this new development.

"Dear Greg. it began when we were in Carlisle. Watching you with that damn Barnaby took my heart away. It was then. But as this Mike person says," pointing to the note," I too have issues with your way of life."

"Yea. I'm a damn whore. Worse than--."

His palm covers my mouth, smothering my words, "stop that talk this instant," his face twisted, his eyes flaring.  
"You're a beautiful person. One worth something," his thumb smoothing my lips.

His hands are stroking his face, hiding its surface, and he utters a number of large breaths.

Staring at anything but me, "Let me give you some insight into my life. The usual bullshit. A house in a quiet neighborhood, married, good job, two kids. The whole fucking thing fell apart when we met Alex and Dorrie. Spent lots of time in each others company."

His hands knot together, his knuckles grow white.

"Eating dinner at Alex's house was a regular thing. Karen, my wife, was prone to migraines. This one night Karen came down with a headache. She insisted I stay and Alex offered to drive me home. At any rate, long story, Dorrie proceeded to bed, and Alex and I sat together. Not drinking."

His voice was one-note, deadpan.

"Strange how it happened. I came out of the bathroom and he was there. Waiting.  
It was a defining moment. I, not he, leaned into him and we kissed. Neither of us felt self-conscious. It was so natural. I grew frightened and had him take me home."  
He stops, places his hand on my knee, "I've never breathed a word about his to anyone."  
Shifting uncomfortably, "It was a one-off incident, or so I thought at the time."  
His fingers nervously played with each other.  
"The tension, the thrill of--anyway, it was myself and not Alex that encouraged our trysts."  
"Did his wife know?"  
Stan huffs, " oh yes. Dorrie knew about his proclivity and accepted it. But Karen discovered and, well, you know, petitioned for legal separation.  
Neither of us actually mentioned anything about the real reason. Too many conventional mores encompassing sex. And I was ashamed to voice it out loud, and tucked it in a corner of my world."  
Heaving a sigh, one which I knew so well, "You were and are my single adventure at Old World."

Standing, he scruffs my hair," Oh, Greg, he's given you more than I could. You have the world in front of you. Don't waste it."  
Kissing my forehead, "Godspeed."

I spring up, holding him by his shoulder, "and why wouldn't we be able--."  
Turning, his gaze far off, his voice a monotone," no. It's best for both of us if we terminate this association."  
Before I can consider anything else to say he's left. Left me alone to think. To realize that yes, maybe, Gregory Lestrade, you can reach that dream.


	13. Living a New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving on from his old self Greg becomes a new person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should be the last chapter

" Oh, Greg, he's given you more than I could. You have the world in front of you. Don't waste it."

With Stan's words echoing in my head, I set out to achieve my goals.

I apply to University on a Tuesday.  
The very next day, I'm called by my real estate agent to view a flat.  
As soon as I see the little one-bedroom flat, I know it's perfect, and I sign the lease.

Did I mind that it had none any of the fancy amenities that the suite had?  
Not in the least!  
Not a rounded bed but full size.  
Not an oval sofa but a two-seater fabric couch.  
Not a hot tub but rather a standard tub and shower.  
That's all I, as a bachelor, needs right at this time in my life.

The peach painting is one of few items I remove from the suite and has a special place hanging over my bed.

Deciding the book is not a good idea to leave on a bookshelf, I enclose in plastic, tucking the note between the pages.  
My fingers run affectionately over the note, pondering--where is Mike? Does he remember me still? What is he doing? Where is he?  
The book and the note are or was,--no, still are, a significant part of my previous life.  
I sigh intensely and slide the book in the drawer holding my underwear.

My first day at university, I stop on the pavement and turn the other way. I've got to be crazy to do this!

Come on Greg, I mumble under my breath, get a grip and get a life.  
I turn on my heels, military style, and march to my first lecture.

Any anxiety disappears to be replaced by the joy, the thrill of turning pages of a book, learning, educating myself.

To tell the truth, I felt out of place with the chatter of my classmates. I knew nothing of their music or movies. And who was dating whom?  
I sat alone during lunch, not sure how to present myself. Or if I wanted to.  
Until finally one day a bespectacled young man asked to sit with me and soon I was sharing a table with them.  
Listening to them most of the time.  
They invariably ask the same questions of me," what are you studying? What do you intend to do with yourself? Why did you wait so long?"  
My mum was a sick woman, and I had to care for her was the story I made up.

Evenings I spent alone, studying or watching telly.  
A new passion became cooking and I found I liked the idea of an actual recipe book instead of an online page.  
I began to possess a collection of these books had two shelves of condiments to go along with them.

My next-door neighbors, an older couple invited me to dinner one night.  
When Mindy found out I liked to cook we joined together, pots and pans going from one flat to another.  
Her husband, Alfie, a former opera singer, would accompany us with a song.

During those years, I encounter two men.  
I have brief relationships with two men, but they don't last long because who could compete with a phantom?  
An ideal!  
A fabrication that involved all of two days in the presence of the peach.

For the heck of it, I chose to pay a visit to Eric.

On the face of the building was a for sale sign.

Once in the office, I have to keep myself from gaping.

Eric is standing behind his desk looking- - skinny--no gaunt, hair gone, pale. cheeks sunken.

He doesn't look up until I speak aloud, "Hello, Eric," keeping my voice guarded, my face blank.

He jumps, nervous as a squirrel, takes his seat and leans forward, his elbows on the desk, his face tucked into his hands.

I'm not sure what to say so I say the obvious, "you're selling off the buildings, I see."

"Yes. I have cancer. Selling the place gives me good money to live on until I die."

My pained stare must have revealed my anguish.

" Try not to look so sad, Greg. I was battling it while you were working here. It's only now gotten the better of me."

He changes the subject quickly and asks about myself.

Covered up under the discussion is --the name Mike,-- felt in the air but not spoken aloud.

I went on about the flat and my studies and it was close to two hours when Eric's eyelids began to droop.  
I stood, took both his fragile hands in mine, leaned over, and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you for everything you did for us poor souls. You were so accepting and gracious."

All he could do was nod, and I left with pain in my heart.

The police academy is the final step towards what my life goal had always been. Or to what I had always fantasized about.  
To become a police officer and eventually an investigator of crimes.  
The entrance exam was, thankfully, not as difficult as expected.

Even though I did not make the top five, it was suitable for entry.

It wasn't until it came time to become familiar with the usage of a gun that I became apprehensive.  
It was the power and influence it could exert on a person when held in one's hand.

I feel like I am standing in a cardboard egg carton when I walk into the padded firing range room.  
I giggle slightly but my chest is tight, and my stomach flutters.

I'm afraid of losing my cool and making a fool of myself with a pistol in my hands.

Daniel, the instructor, is holding in his hand a .38 Caliber 2-inch revolver and places it on the grey felt-covered table in front of where I stand.

"Don't worry about the jitters. Most people never get the chance to touch a weapon, let alone fire it."

He looks down at his watch, the door opens and he says, looking at the woman who walked in, "Kate. You're okay. Come over here, and I'll start you out," turning away from me and over his shoulder," I'll be with you in a moment."

The weapon sits on the table, and I stare at it, willing myself to quit being an imbecile and pick it up.

I have the earplugs installed and my goggles adjusted.

His name is Blake! A cocky, overpowering sort.  
He attends two of my classes.  
He always wears skin-tight clothes, accenting his physique.  
His laughter is booming, doing everything in a big, bravado way.  
He is not well-liked but gets by on his looks and the spread of his bankroll.

He enters the room and waves to Daniel, spots me, and with his thumbs catching his belt, he walks over.

" Having trouble? Greg is your name, right?"

Today he wore a cream-colored long sleeve tee shirt and jeans, black, with silver studs and his black boots.

Not wanting to verbalize my indecisiveness I shrug.

He wears his hair shoulder-length, a dirty yellow-brown.  
It dangles over his forehead and into his eyes.

Stepping behind me, he sidles close, his chest against my back, "let me help. Lift the pistol in your hand and for the moment, feel the weight."

It's unnerving. His voice close to my ear, tickling, sending bits of energy through my body.

The weapon is sat in the palm of my hand, and its touch is cool, and not threatening.

Why does he have to be so friendly?

What is his motive?

" Listen to my words. Pay attention," his hands grab my waist, friendly but with a sensuality that ripples.  
Ripples down to the making of a slight protrusion of my trousers.

"Carefully keep your finger outside the trigger guard as you set it up, and place your left hand over the other."  
Saying this, his arms extend to lift both my arms and while holding onto my wrists, he sights the weapon at the target.

"The pistol is almost like a cock. So, pretend you're holding mine in your hand."  
His whisper in my ear sets off a jolt that vibrates instantly, raising my own member to full.  
I involuntarily lean back.

We both purr as a result of one of his legs slipping between mine.

" Softly massage that cock. Feel the hardness, the maleness. But be tender," he mutters.

"You don't fool me, Greg Lestrade. I watch your eyes sneaking peeks at my crotch."  
His snicker, wicked," maybe fancying it filling your mouth or--."

Damn! It's been years since someone shook me as he's doing!  
I want to resist, to pull away, but I'm at the point of no return.  
He's hooked me.

Some part of me wishes Daniel would step over and stop Blake.  
But, no! No! Let this happen.  
Let Blake consume me with his teasing!

Licking my ear, biting my neck, "aim for the silhouette of the figure. His heart, not his cock. We'll get to that later."

Nipping little bites, he stops, his breath on the wetness of my neck forcing shivers to erupt, "you're in charge. Controlling that cock's orgasm. Press the trigger smoothly, stroking it."  
His thumb draws circles on my racing pulse.

I'm breathing heavily as a sprinter would as a result of his mischief. His devilry.

"Now darling, pull the trigger back, slowly. Feel the tension of pre-release. Feel it deep in your cock."

The gun fires, the recoil unleashes two firings. The bullet and my cock.

He releases his hold on my physical body but has me wanting more.  
More of what he can give.

His voice, deep, smooth self-satisfied, "Glad I could help. See you around--soon," and walks away leisurely, the door slams behind him.

That was the trigger, the trigger that set off my relationship with Blake.

It was short-lived because Blake was a daredevil.  
He took risks.  
Kicked out of the academy, I did not miss him.

My first day out on the streets of London as a member of the police force. So thrilled and eager to continue toward my goal. Becoming a detective.


	14. Over A Pool Of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft unexpectedly has his long-awaited union with Gregory. For a man who has everything planned to the second, it all goes wrong. Will it change anything?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long awaited ending.

I began my vocation as a legal advisor at my father's firm.  
After two years I had rejected a permanent life as a legal counselor.  
I accepted a position as an MI6 executive for the government and rose through the ranks.

I've kept a file of Gregory Lestrade's life from university to the present.  
It was no surprise to me when he attained the position of Inspector Detective.

Fate transpired to acquaint Gregory with my younger sibling Sherlock. To my amusement, Sherlock assists the detective with criminal cases.

I have kept the relationship between the detective and myself a secret.  
I would be the determinator of time and place, masterminding when we would encounter each other.

It's after seven in the evening.  
The weather is shifting into the autumn coolness that London knows so well.  
I'm in the driveway of my residence, my vehicle door open with one foot on the ground.  
My cell phone resonates within my pocket.  
I pause to glance at the message.

Come at once to 55 West Dover. An apparent MI6 is at the moment, sprawled in a massive pool of blood. SH

Leave it to my sibling, Sherlock, to be so dramatic!

I walk up the short flight of steps to the entrance of an old brown brick building.  
Before the officer standing at the wide-open door can ask, I reveal my badge.  
The room to which I'm ushered into is bathed in spotlights arranged in the corners.  
Blinking to clear my vision, I see two men hunched over a blood-stained body lying on the deep green carpet.  
The men are consumed in a murmured discussion.

One of the men is Sherlock, his wavy hair bobbing, his distinctly deep voice in dispute with the other man.  
He turns, regards me, and stands, while the other man still kneels next to the body.  
Sherlock taps the man on the shoulder, "a person of some authority with MI6 has arrived. My older sibling Mycroft."  
His tone is offensive in its disrespect.  
I am used to it and ignore him.

The man addressed proceeds to groan as he stands, and revolves around to confront me.  
He starts to state something however his mouth hangs open, his eyes enlarge, he wavers.

My eyes expand, a whooshing sounds from my lips, and air surges out of my lungs.  
I retreat, arms out, palms up, backing up until my heels strike the kickplate to the doorway.

"Miiiikkke? Is it you?" his voice hoarse, so unstable, one hand across his eyebrows to shield his eyes, "Miikke, Mycroft?"

I back out the entrance and fumble my way down the outside steps and my keys tumble to the ground.  
Picking them up, I have to hold them with two hands to thrust the key into the keyhole of the car.  
I step in and in leaving screech the tires.  
"No, no, no," I bellow out, punching the steering wheel with a fist, eyes not focusing.

Brakes squealing in the driveway, I'm out of the car and to the front door of my home.

My keycard falls from my hands twice before I can swipe it.  
I drop my coat off my shoulders and onto the floor.  
I kick at it and the coat lodges between the entryway and jamb.  
If I stretch to pick it up I'll topple over, sprawling there in misery.  
It lies there, the breeze from the night air streaming in.

I'm unstrung!  
Every one of my courses of action, my long years of meticulous preparation. Gone!

I lift the whiskey decanter in a haze of chaos.  
Removing the stopper I splash the liquid carelessly into a stemless glass.  
One mouthful, two, and three, and its sharp tang stings the rear of my windpipe.  
Another pouring, another downing.

Perching on the edge of the sofa, my fingers sweep through my hair, pulling at the strands.  
Attempting to wipe away my turmoil, I smooth the front of my shirt with clammy hands.

It's past finished. I've made a fool of myself!  
I, who have mastered the aspects of each development of my life, botched this one!  
Of course, the detective would be in attendance.  
It's in his area of responsibility.  
I should have, if I had reflected more intensely, sent one of my subordinates to the scene.

All intellect has ceased.  
All emotion has erupted, engaged, and unsettled the foundation of my reasoning.

Sherlock's strides mark his entrance into my house, and with it another set of footfalls.

No! Not him! Please!  
I am in no reasonable manner prepared to receive him.

"Mycroft, my dear, dear brother, "sarcasm dripping.  
"Lestrade has declined to reveal any knowledge concerning your dubious conduct at the crime scene."  
Twisting to confront both of us, he glares," Under what circumstances have you two met before? It has me confounded. Fill me in?"

Bewildered by my vulnerability, of not living in the moment, I stare at a spot between my legs.

I hear the detective speak, his tone forceful, annoyed, " for once stop, Sherlock. This is not your issue. In other words, get the hell out."

There's an awkward quietness into which I hear the sound of the door banging shut.

Gregory sighs, a sound of relief, and kneels in front of me.  
I shudder when one hand of his slides onto my knee, and when I don't protest, his other hand lays on the other knee.

"Mike. Or Mycroft. Whichever!" his head moving side to side in disbelief, "shit! If I had identified your real name I would have found you sooner," apologetic, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. "Did you think I'd forgotten you--my bitten peach?"

His fingers stroke a tender rhythm on my thighs.

Swallowing is difficult.  
I extend my hand to contact Gregory's fingers but move away.  
" There was a design, a specific way that I had imagined --," stifling an almost sob, attempting not to cover my face in shame.

He laughs, "Oh so you wanted brass bands and confetti, I suppose? Maybe strolling onto a stage in your--," his hands slide off, and he sits back on his haunches.  
"Oh shit! I'm sorry. Shouldn't be making fun of those days. We each have some good memories--"  
His tone sober, "but now you're an influential and distinguished person, aren't you?"

He winces in the act of settling on the floor, knees bending to his chest.

My head rises to trade glances, our eyes sliding, but not directly viewing.

At long last our looks meet, unafraid, however with unanswered questions.

Slowly he smiles, his head inclining, and murmurs,"Now that you found me, my Arabian prince, who are you?"

A sob breaks through my resistance and tears slide along my cheeks, I reply, "Your slave. Mycroft Holmes. The older brother of Sherlock Holmes. MI6 minor member of our government."

Snickering, "that's a lot to take in. Let's leave it at, well, my slave by the name of Mycroft Holmes," thinking, "how long have you known where to find me?" wistfully smiling.

The warmth on my face increases, "I'm too humiliated to even think about giving you a genuine answer. But from--from the moment-- you enrolled in university."

"Why did you not contact me--"

I tentatively encounter his hand that still rests on my knee, "First I desired us to prosper in our own right."

"And let me guess. You grew afraid I wouldn't either remember you or turn you away. Right?"

Not ready to communicate the profound emotions I'm having, I shrug.

"Now that we've found each other," he scrambles much nearer, his two fingers under my jaw, raising my head.

I scrutinize his captivating honey brown eyes as they shine with unspoken cravings.

In what way, I ponder internally, the question blooming in my mind.  
In view of our new expectations, how do we travel to the now based on the slim foundation of that period long ago?

The minutes' tick by, neither recognizing what to do or say.

I make a sound as though to talk, intending to communicate something, anything to calm the anxiety in the room.

Greg opens his mouth, breathes deep, closes it.  
He repeats, "Now that we've found each other," and adds," how long will you remain? "

Checking my breath, my jaw sets, I bend closer, and in the gentlest of voices, "Sweet peach. I would, if invited remain to the furthest limit of time."

Struggling to maintain eye contact, I wet my lips, my mouth dry, alarmed at the melodrama.  
I firmly shut my eyes and blink them open.  
Could I possibly have invented this scenario?  
If it is all an illusion then let me proceed to wax stupidities.  
"As far as I am concerned, there can be nobody on the planet, other than you."

He radiates. His eyes alight, his grin splashes across his face.  
Indeed, even his hair appears to have a shimmering sparkle, a near halo.

"Do you still own a copy of the book?" he glances away, hesitant to hear my response.

I can't resist the urge to grin at his face that is, at long last, before me.  
"If the world would end at the now there would be only one item I would be holding."  
Inhaling and willing his eyes to meet mine.

As if a string is pulling him, his eyes return, and he smirks, "only one?" pulling my hand, forcing me to rise.

"Will you stay?" I ask of him, the heat of his hand clasping mine is both magnificent and frightening.

"Only on one condition," he says as I freeze inside.

His eyes radiate, and both hands own mine, "If you will read me a story from the book, I will stay."

An extraordinary emotion of peacefulness descends upon me. The next words issue with ease, "It would be an honor", bending my head, tears at the edge.

I lead him out of the parlor to my bedroom where the book lies hidden for all these years.

"My dear Gregory. My bitten peach. Anything is feasible now that we are together."

Inside the room he pulls me in towards him, "yes, my peach. Now that we are together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked and hope you'll comment. I like to hear goods and bads.


End file.
